Dreaming of France -- I See London I See France

Please join this weekly meme. Grab a copy of the photo above and link back to An Accidental Blog. Share with the rest of us your passion for France. Did you read a good book set in France? See a movie? Take a photo in France? Have an adventure? Eat a fabulous meal or even just a pastry? Or if you're in France now, go ahead and lord it over the rest of us. We can take it.
Finally, my latest novel I See London I See France is available.
It's a fun, women's fiction novel with the exhaustion of mothering and a hint of romance.
Here's the blurb:

When her husband of a dozen years walks out in a huff, Caroline Sommers walks out too – to Europe, with her kids after impulsively selling her minivan for travel money. Tired of being the perfect wife, she escapes to rediscover herself, and possibly rekindle the unrequited love of a Frenchman from her college days.  While shepherding her kids from London to Scotland then Paris to Provence, she finds herself at a crossroads. Does she choose love, or lust, in the arms of a European man, or should she try again with the father of her children and the man she truly loved, once?

I wrote this book originally when the kids were little. It was my first novel, but I put it away. I've revised it a few times and I'm really happy with its latest revision. I added flashbacks throughout as the main character remembers her college crush with an older Frenchman Jean-Marc. Part of Caroline's quest through Europe is to learn whether she settled for the wrong man by marrying her husband.
And where did those ideas and feelings for Frenchman come from? My very own trip to France when I was 22.
I've sworn my kids to secrecy -- because we are still connected to the family in France-- but I had a major crush on one of the brothers.

This snapshot doesn't do justice to my French crush, but imagine learning to sail in the Mediterranean with a handsome French doctor. The character in my book is a little more extreme, but has a lot of the same yummy qualities. 

Here's a link to the paperback version of I see London I See France.

The Amazon link for a Kindle version at $4.99 is here, and the Nook link is here.

I hope  my book helps other to Dream of France too.

Can't wait to see what you post this week.

Ch-ch-ch-Changes

How are you with change?
I'm pretty good with it. This may have something to do with me being shallow. In my adult life, I've moved from city to city about every five years. If we didn't move, I would get a little antsy, like I needed something new, something different.
That has faded some as I get older. We've been in Columbus now 15 years! But we have lived in three different  houses in three different parts of the city.

Grace is exhausted by change even at age 1.

My daughter Grace hates change, but she's working on it. The other day I had an epiphany and called to tell her why she hates change. We lived in four different houses before her 1st birthday. That's the year we moved from Sebring, Florida to Tampa, Florida then Jackson, Michigan where we lived in an apartment for a few months before closing on our first house and moving into it. Four houses and the chaos that goes with it probably led to her aversion to change.
Our household has dealt with recent changes as first Grace, then Spencer graduated high school and marched off to faraway colleges. Grace accepted change once again when she transferred to a college closer to home.
But in the coming year, we'll face an even bigger change, not just Tucker graduating and going off to college, but Earl's work schedule is changing.
Earl has been working evenings for nearly five years.
It was on Tucker's 13th birthday that we learned the newspaper would have layoffs. We held our breath to see if Earl would lose his job. Luckily, he didn't, but he did move jobs from assistant city editor to copy editor. We felt fortunate that he would have a job at all with the way the newspaper business was going. And the company left his salary the same. All he lost was a free parking space.

Tucker at age 13.

The new job as copy editor required Earl to work evenings rather than days. In his previous job, he'd go in to work at 10 a.m. and come home at 8 or 9 p.m.
When he switched, five years ago, he started to work 3-11 p.m. or 4-midnight, sometimes even 5 p.m. to 1 a.m.
From the time Tucker was 13, Earl has been absent in the evenings. Now as Tucker begins the downhill slide to 18 and his last semester of high school, Earl will switch to day times again and begin working as a reporter.
He's okay with moving to the reporter position. Working as a copy editor was good because he worked his eight hours then came home and put it behind him. As a reporter, the job won't go away quite that easily. He may work longer hours and he may continue to do work at home, but he will be here in the evenings.
That may mean I have to fight for the remote on the nights that The Bachelor or The Amazing Race air. That probably means I'm going to see a lot more old movies or specials on airplanes on television.

Hottie Juan-Pablo appears on The Bachelor
 starting in January.

I'll  probably need to start making dinner regularly too. Between me and Tucker, I sometimes make a pot of macaroni and cheese or bake a pizza that he can eat whenever he gets hungry. With my husband home, I'm probably going to feel obligated to cook real meals again.
Things will change for Tucker too. When he got old enough to drive, he started coming home from school for lunch. Since I teach college, sometimes I am home and sometimes not, but Earl is almost always home. He cooks grilled cheese sandwiches and tomato soup for Tucker, or slathers peanut butter and jelly between slices of bread. Tucker then takes his lunch and turns on ESPN for his 30-minute lunch.
This Wednesday, I had a meeting at 11:30. Earl had a meeting too.
At 11:47, my phone rang.
"Where is everybody?" Tucker asked.
I explained the meeting situation and then told Tucker he'd better get used to it since Earl moved to days in January and I was scheduled to work at least 3 days during the week.
"Do you mean I'm going to have to make my own lunch?" Tucker asked.
"That's how it looks," I said.
I knew Earl never should have started making Tucker's lunch. Now he's just looking for a handout every day at noon.
I'm sure we'll all get through the changes coming our way. Until then, I'm keeping the remote and I'll probably make sure Tucker gets lunch through next week anyway.

First Paragraph, Tuesday Teaser -- Bridget Jones Mad About the Boy

Every Tuesday, Diane at Bibliophile by the Sea posts the first paragraph of her current read. Anyone can join in. Go to Diane's website for the image and share the first paragraph of the current book you are reading.
Yesterday, my first official day after classes had finished at one of the colleges where I teach, I made the mistake of picking up Bridget Jones Mad About the Boy by Helen Fielding. The reason it was a mistake, because I spent the rest of the day engrossed in it and finished it last night. She is as delightful as always.

Here's the intro:

Thursday, 15 April 20132:30 p.m. Talitha just called, talking in that urgent, 'let's-be-discreet-but-wildly-overdramatic' voice she always has. 'Darling, I just want to let you know that it's my sixtieth on the 24th of May. I'm not SAYING it's my sixtieth, obviously. And keep it quiet because I'm not asking everyone. I just wanted you to keep the date free.'

Not the greatest opening, but you do dive directly into that Bridget Jones voice and if you've read the others, that warm feeling floods through you.
Also this week  is Teaser Tuesdays. Teaser Tuesdays is a weekly bookish meme, hosted by MizB of Should Be Reading. Anyone can play along! Open to a random page of your current read  and share a teaser sentence from somewhere on that page. BE CAREFUL NOT TO INCLUDE SPOILERS! Share the title & author, too, so that other TT participants can add the book to their TBR Lists if they like your teaser
Here's my teaser from page 248:

Everyone stared as the little dog foundered to the surface in the middle of the pool, yapping, then disappeared under the water again. Suddenly, Roxster pulled his T-shirt over his shoulders, revealing his ripped torso. He dived straight into the pool, an arc of blue water, spray and muscle, then resurfaced, wet and glistening, at the other end of the pool having completely missed the dog, which took a last gulp of air, then sank.

Don't worry. The dog makes it. Actually, I've never heard of a dog that couldn't swim.
Hope you are reading something you enjoy.

Snow Surprise

I wake up this morning at 5:30 and I can see from the light in the sky that it probably snowed. The light glows brighter. I look at my weather app on my phone while still in bed. "Snow showers" and 19 degrees. Perfect running weather? No, but...
The weather forecasters were not warning of blizzards, as a matter of fact, I'm pretty sure that my weather app didn't mention snow at all this week. I figured there might be a dusting of snow and if I run in the street, I should be fine.
I get up, dress in layers with long underwear under my running tights (pretty, as you can imagine). Then I walk to the door and look at the previously shoveled walk.
There's at least three inches of snow.
How did this happen? Shouldn't someone have warned me?
I sneak back into my dark bedroom. Creaky wooden floors always give me away though. I use my phone as a flashlight and find my hiking boots. I add an extra wool sweater to my ensemble, since I won't get as warm walking as I would running.
Hat, scarf, gloves.
I walk through the virgin snow. It is powdery and when my foot moves forward through it, a wave of snow sprays ahead of it.

This pic from http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Types_of_snow,
which actually says this is hoarfrost rather than powdery snow.

I walk to the bank to withdraw cash, stop at the coffee shop where the man who always wears shorts is actually wearing pants today. I make one last stop at Panera for croissants. They have only one. What? Cinnamon roll for Tuck then and a chocolate croissant for Earl.
Then I walk home with my hunted and gathered goodies. I spend another half hour shoveling the walk and sweeping the snow off Tucker's car before he leaves for school.
I didn't get cold, but the music on my phone kind of froze after about an hour and  half outside.
Hmmm. Maybe it's time to take out those cross country skis and head down to the park.
The only problem is, that once I'm inside and warm, I forget that I didn't get cold and I don't want to go outside again. I'll probably stay by the fire, just because I can.

Dreaming of France -- Luxembourg Gardens

Please join this weekly meme. Grab a copy of the photo above and link back to An Accidental Blog. Share with the rest of us your passion for France. Did you read a good book set in France? See a movie? Take a photo in France? Have an adventure? Eat a fabulous meal or even just a pastry? Or if you're in France now, go ahead and lord it over the rest of us. We can take it.
By next weekend, my two college kids will have returned home for break. So I thought I would relive some fun family times, like this spring afternoon in Luxembourg Gardens.

We sat in these metal chairs and ate sandwiches on baguette.

Grace was 14 and still regrets this poncho choice. I think she looks beautiful.

  
Spencer was 12, note the puca shell necklace, and Tucker was 10. Earl is ageless, of course, and just happy to be in Paris.

Saturday Snapshot -- Childhood Memories & Book Giveaway

To participate in the Saturday Snapshot meme, post a photo that you (or a friend of family member) have taken. Then leave a direct link to your post on West Metro Mommy. Photos can be old or new, and be of any subject as long as they are clean and appropriate for all eyes to see. How much detail you give in the caption is entirely up to you. Please don't post random photos that you find online.
This beaten up cake cover has such good memories for me.

When my parents moved from Ohio to Kentucky then to Florida, somehow, they decided to give me possession of the cake cover. Most of the year it is set in the basement. I don't bake layer cakes very often. But for my mom's birthday on Thanksgiving, I baked a cake and put it in the cake cover to transport to my brother's house. 

Whenever I see this, I can almost taste the rich fudge icing that my mom used to make, or the red cake with white creamy icing. 

Sure, it's dented in places, and I would never trust the little tabs to hold the cover in place so I could carry it by the handle, but I can't imagine giving this up, until I'm retired and moving from house to house and I bestow it on my daughter.

Also this week,  I have a book giveaway for The Consolations of the Forest, a beautifully written contemplative book in hard cover for anyone in the U.S. or Canada. Just leave a comment to be included in the drawing next Friday.

France Book Tours -- The Consolation of the Forest & Giveaway

Today I'm reviewing The Consolations of the Forest by Sylvain Tesson for FranceBookTours. I received the book free in return for a fair and honest review.
This nonfiction book follows the adventure of a 37-year-old Frenchman who decides to spend six months in an isolated cabin in Siberia. That's right, Siberia.
On page 86 he explains why he decided to isolate himself from the world.

Reasons Why I'm Living Alone In A Cabin
I talked too much
I wanted silence
Too behind with my mail and too many people to see
I was jealous of Crusoe
It's better heated than my place in Paris
Tired of running errands
So I can scream and live naked
Because I hate the telephone and traffic noise.

Already, I'm thinking, aren't there deserted islands in the Pacific where he could scuff around in the sand and live like Tom Hanks in Cast Away? I mean, can't you do all those isolated things in a warm climate?
But Tesson is something of an adventurer and had traveled in Siberia before, so there's where he decided to go.
As I read this book, I was struck by something that a French visitor said recently when he came to Ohio. He saw the movie Captain Phillips and I asked if he liked it. He said, "It was very American." He explained that things were clear cut, black and white with the hero winning everything. That's when I realized how different Americans and French people are. This book emphasizes those differences.

Here's a passage from page 94 to help explain the author's need for isolation as he compares himself to old Chinese men who retire to cabins to prepare for death:

Non-action sharpens all perception. The hermit absorbs the universe, paying acute attention to its smallest manifestation. Sitting cross-legged beneath an almond tree, he hears the shock of a petal striking the surface of a pond. He sees the edge of a feather vibrate as a crane flies overhead. He feels the perfume of a happy flower rise from the blossom to envelop the evening.

In addition to living as a hermit, Tesson takes along a bunch of books to read -- these books are not what most people would consider entertaining or distracting. Nietzsche, Camus, Thoreau, the Stoics
Here's a quote from page 24 that turned me off the book:

In What Am I Doing Here? Bruce Chatwin quotes Jünger quoting Stendahl: "The art of civilization..."

You know what, it doesn't even matter what Chatwin quoted Jünger quoting Stendahl. That puts me off. As I tell my English Comp students, go directly to the source.
Some of the writing is beautiful, like this paragraph from page 41:

Yesterday's wind has polished the rink. I glide over the glaze with the grace of a seal. Internal faults sheet through the ice in turquoise veils. I pass refrozen fissures the color of ivory. I maintain my balance, skating on the reflections of mountains that resemble shy dancers, cinched into their white dresses and hesitating to join the waltz. 

Tesson makes this experience sound beautiful, but he can't escape the fact that it is kind of boring. If he is bored living it then it will not entertain me.
If I were French, if I were deeper, if I were living alone in Siberia, this book would probably sweep me away. But I am none of those things.
This is an, at times, beautiful book that is full of contemplative ideas about life and nature.

Maybe I am too American for this book. My idea of a back-to-nature book is A Walk in the Woods by Bill Bryson or Wild by Cheryl Strayed. My blog friend Emma said this is her favorite nonfiction book of the year. I can see that. She likes to read philosophy and to think deep. That is exactly the kind of person who will enjoy this book. If that's you, you are in for a treat.
U.S. and Candian readers can leave a comment to win a hardcover copy of this book.

SYNOPSISA meditation on escaping the chaos of modern life and rediscovering the luxury of solitude.
Winner of the Prix Médicis for non-fiction, THE CONSOLATIONS OF THE FOREST is a Thoreau-esque quest to find solace, taken to the extreme. No stranger to inhospitable places, Sylvain Tesson exiles himself to a wooden cabin on Siberia’s Lake Baikal—a full day’s hike from any “neighbor”— with his thoughts, books, a couple of dogs, and many bottles of vodka for company. Writing from February to July, he shares his deep appreciation for the harsh but beautiful land, the resilient men and women who populate it, and the bizarre and tragic history that has given Siberia an almost mythological place in the imagination.
Rich with observation, introspection, and the good humor necessary to laugh at his own folly, Tesson’s memoir is about the ultimate freedom of owning your own time. Only in the hands of a gifted storyteller can an experiment in isolation become an exceptional adventure accessible to all.  By recording his impressions in the face of silence, his struggles in a hostile environment, his hopes, doubts, and moments of pure joy in communion with nature, Tesson makes a decidedly out-of-the-ordinary experience relatable to the reader who may be struggling with hir or her own search for peace and balance in life. The awe and joy are contagious, and one comes away with the comforting knowledge that “as long as there is a cabin deep in the woods, nothing is completely lost.”  [provided by the publisher]
Release date: September 17, 2013
Page number: 256Publisher link: http://www.rizzoliusa.com/book.php?isbn=9780847841271

 Author bioSylvain Tesson is a writer, journalist, and celebrated traveler. He has been exploring Central Asia—on foot, bicycle, and horse—since 1997. A best-seller in his native France, he is published all over the world—and now in the United States.

Hip Harley Rider

This blog post could probably just be a tweet, but, I'm sharing with all of you.
On my run this morning, I ended up running on the sidewalk along a street with a lot of businesses, so the traffic picked up.
I started hearing music, above the music on my headphones and figured a car must be coming up behind me with the windows down and the music jacked up. The fairly mild weather could encourage drivers to roll down the windows.
But as the vehicle got louder and passed me, I saw an older guy with gray hair pulled into a ponytail riding a Harley Davidson motorcycle. He wore no helmet, of course, and a black leather jacket. His feet stuck forward so that he could lean back and  hold onto the high handlebars of the motorcycle.
He looked like a typical Harley rider, except for the Christmas light that he had attached to the frame of his motorcycle. The lights shone pale blue.
I didn't get a picture. I should have because the lights were obviously a string of lights that had been wrapped around, up and down on the main section of the bike. But here's a photo to give you an idea.

Photo Credit: http://fineartamerica.com/featured/harley-davidson-motorcycle-dustin-k-ryan.html

So, an early morning Harley rider with his bike lit up might catch my eye, but the music blaring originally caught my attention. And then it hit me. I expected a Harley rider to be playing some sort of heavy metal rock. "Get your motor runnin', head out on the highway..."
Instead, the music coming from the motorcycle was a woman singing R&B.
And it made me want to laugh and remind myself not to stereotype people.

First Paragraph, Teaser Tuesday -- The Consolations of the Forest

Every Tuesday, Diane at Bibliophile by the Sea posts the first paragraph of her current read. Anyone can join in. Go to Diane's website for the image and share the first paragraph of the current book you are reading.
My problem is that I'm starting this book at a time I will have to read it quickly, and this is definitely  not a book to be read quickly. Here's the opening from The Consolations of the Forest: Alone in a Cabin on the Siberian Taiga by Sylvain Tesson. The translation from French was done by Linda Coverdale.

I promised myself that before I turned forty I would live as a hermit deep in the woods.
I went to spend six months in a Siberian cabin on the shores of Lake Baikal, on the tip of North Cedar Cape. Seventy-five miles from the nearest village, no neighbors, no access roads, and every now and then, a visit. Wintertime temperatures in the minus twenties Fahrenheit; the summer brought bears out into the open. In short: paradise.

Also this week  is Teaser Tuesdays. Teaser Tuesdays is a weekly bookish meme, hosted by MizB of Should Be Reading. Anyone can play along! Open to a random page of your current read  and share a teaser sentence from somewhere on that page. BE CAREFUL NOT TO INCLUDE SPOILERS! Share the title & author, too, so that other TT participants can add the book to their TBR Lists if they like your teasers
Here's my teaser from page 40:

I set the vodka glasses on the table, and we become gently drunk in the fetal warmth. The Australian woman doesn't quite get the picture.  

I'll be posting a review of this on Friday if you want to check back to see what I think about it.

Dreaming of France -- The Perfume Collector

Please join this weekly meme. Grab a copy of the photo above and link back to An Accidental Blog. Share with the rest of us your passion for France. Did you read a good book set in France? See a movie? Take a photo in France? Have an adventure? Eat a fabulous meal or even just a pastry? Or if you're in France now, go ahead and lord it over the rest of us. We can take it.
I have another book review for this week. I am squeaking out some time for reading, even though I still have final exam essays to grade for my college classes. Unfortunately, I read most of this book in the middle of the night when my college son sent me a worrying text at 3 a.m. I moved to the couch and read until 5 a.m. because I knew I wouldn't be able to sleep. Everything is fine now, and, as expected, the 3 a.m. text was an overreaction.
Anyway, I really enjoyed The Perfume Collector by Kathleen Tessaro. The book was layered with such great, sensory details. Of course, since it's called The Perfume Collector, you would expect that it would be strong on the sense of smell, but the other details and emotions were strongly written as well.
The book switched back and forth with a narrator from the 1920s and a narrator from the 1950s, and we don't learn the connection between the two until later in the book. They both led fascinating lives, and each story is equally compelling.
 Here's an excerpt from early in the book, from the 1950s section:

Grace had a fondness for the sharpness of this time of year; for the muted, shifting light that played tricks on her eyes. It was a time of mysterious, yet dramatic metamorphosis. One minute there was nothing but storms and rain; a moment later a field of daffodils appeared, exploding triumphantly into a fanfare of colour.

Grace learns that she has inherited the estate of Eva d'Orsey, who she has never heard of. So she flies off to Paris to learn about her inheritance and the woman who left it to her. The journey, of course, becomes about discovering the woman who left her a fabulous apartment and fortune, along with learning what she wants herself.
I loved the scenery descriptions along with the feeling that Grace enjoys as she realizes the thrill that comes from sitting in a cafe with a handsome man and enjoying some new foods with "flavor."
Toward the end of the book, a number of proofreading errors were distracting. And most bothersome of all, in the final chapter, a main character was identified by the wrong name, causing me to flip back and forth several times until I realized that the wrong name had been used.
I also felt the book could have gone on a little longer with more details to tie up all the ends, but none of this marred my enjoyment of the novel. I highly recommend it.

Winning

This evening at 7 p.m., I finished writing 50,000 words as part of Nanowrimo, National Novel Writing Month. I already had 25,000 words written for my novel A Charm of Finches, and now I've added 50,000 words, which means a grand total of 75,000 words.
So how many words does it take to make a novel,  you may ask? My first novel, The Summer of France, was more than 80,000 words, and I've had people complain that it was too short. My next novel coming soon, I See London, I See France is around 100,000 words.
Romance novels might be around 60,000 words, so different novels are different lengths.
Any way, I completed 50,000 words in November.
That means I'm a winner.

As you can see from this nifty, retro animation winner button. 

And this one, which shows I've won an empty treasure chest. Maybe it's just a treasure trove opening as I put my words on the page. 

And here's a banner which I could put on my Facebook page, but I probably won't. But if you haven't yet, and you'd like to, you can visit my author page Paulita Kincer on Facebook and like me. I'd appreciate it.

First Paragraph, Tuesday Teaser -- The Perfume Collector

Every Tuesday, Diane at Bibliophile by the Sea posts the first paragraph of her current read. Anyone can join in. Go to Diane's website for the image and share the first paragraph of the current book you are reading.
I'm awash in books that I'm excited to read. The cover alone of The Perfume Collector would pull me in.

The novel by Kathleen Tessaro is even endorsed by Marian Keyes, one of my favorite authors, and set in France. I don't even have to open it to know I'll love it. But I hope it lives up to my expectations.
Here's the intro:

Eva d"Orsey sat at the kitchen table, listening to the ticking clock, a copy of Le Figaro in front of her. This was the sound of time, moving away from her.
Taking another drag from a cigarette, she looked out of the window, into the cold misty morning. Paris was waking now, the grey dawn, streaked with orange, seeping slowly into a navy sky. She'd been up for hours, since four. Sleep had inched away from her these past years as the pain increased, shooting up along the left side of her body. 

Don't you love this character already? And the line about time moving away from her!
Also this week  is Teaser Tuesdays. Teaser Tuesdays is a weekly bookish meme, hosted by MizB of Should Be Reading. Anyone can play along! Open to a random page of your current read  and share a teaser sentence from somewhere on that page. BE CAREFUL NOT TO INCLUDE SPOILERS! Share the title & author, too, so that other TT participants can add the book to their TBR Lists if they like your teasers.
Here's my randomly selected teaser from page 57:

Her lips were so thin as to be nothing more than an idea for a mouth. 

I love the writing in that line. As a matter of fact, I wish I'd written it.
Looking forward to see what you all are reading to increase my reading stack for the holidays.

Dreaming of France -- The French House

Please join this weekly meme. Grab a copy of the photo above and link back to An Accidental Blog. Share with the rest of us your passion for France. Did you read a good book set in France? See a movie? Take a photo in France? Have an adventure? Eat a fabulous meal or even just a pastry? Or if you're in France now, go ahead and lord it over the rest of us. We can take it.
This week, I read on my Kindle a book set in France called The French House by Nick Alexander. I really enjoyed this book and just flew through it.
The book begins predictably with Victor, a Frenchman, mostly raised in England, inheriting a house in the mountains along the south of France about an hour from Nice airport. Victor was a gynecologist who decides to give up his practice to raise goats in France. His Irish girlfriend, CC, who lives in London, flies to join him and is surprised to learn that the house is a ruin.

The farmhouse is a large single-storey [sic] building of the same grey stone from which all the drystone walls around the property are made. It is set into a  niche carved from the hill behind. The building has only two tiny windows on the visible side and a gaping hole in the roof. To the right and left of the main house are two outbuildings, each about two-thirds the size of the main house, neither of which has any roof whatsover.

The sun is dipping behind the mountains now, the whole ensemble sliding into grey and, to be perfectly honest, I'm struggling to see the potential. The overriding ambience is cold, derelict and rather sinister. 

CC and Victor are in love and decide that CC will quit her job in London to move to France, and they start trying to have a baby since they are both in their 30s.
So, the book could be fairly predictable, trying to get work done on a ruin of a house in France, but the story is bolstered by Victor's next door neighbor, his aunt who he hadn't seen since he was 11. CC is convinced that the aunt is a witch trying to kill her. She suffers through food poisoning and swine flu along with other strange occurrences that include tarot cards.
 Even though I liked the book, I would probably give it three out of five stars because of loose ends that weren't tied up, and the main character doesn't seem to be true to himself. He kind of changes in the middle then moves back to the person he was in the beginning.
Also, this book doesn't really give you a chance to fall in love with France because they are living so rough. You don't get enough of those moments that people dream about when they imagine moving to France.
The ending was emotionally satisfying, but, too many things that happened in the book were not answered by the end.

A Room With a View as Writing Inspiration

I'm busy writing and editing today. I've passed 35,000 words in my Nanowrimo efforts and as I was writing a love scene, I had to return to one of my favorite lines from Room With a View when Cecil asks Lucy if he can kiss her. She says, "Well, of course, you may, Cecil. You might have before. I can't run at you, you know."

Here's the scene from youtube. The kiss comes around 3 minutes.
And, as a comparison, we must revisit the scene of the kiss in an Italian poppy field. This was what she compared -- Cecil's  kiss and George's kiss.

Love the soaring Italian opera music. I might have stuck with the Italian drive myself but Julian Sands is divine in this.
Which would you choose?
Lovely to remember and enjoy as I continue my solitary life as a writer.

First Paragraph, Tuesday Teaser -- The Interestings

Every Tuesday, Diane at Bibliophile by the Sea posts the first paragraph of her current read. Anyone can join in. Go to Diane's website for the image and share the first paragraph of the current book you are reading
I just opened up The Interestings by Meg Wolitzer. I know I've read something by Wolitzer before but can't remember what. Hope I get a chance to read this over the upcoming holidays.

 On a warm night in early July of that long-evaporated year, the Interestings gathered for the very first time. They were only fifteen, sixteen, and they began to call themselves the name with tentative irony. Julie Jacobson, an outsider and possibly even a freak, had been invited in for obscure reasons, and now she sat in a corner on the unswept floor and attempted to position herself so she would appear unobtrusive yet not pathetic, which was a difficult balance. The teepee, designed ingeniously though built cheaply, was airless on nights like this one, when there was no wind to push in through the screens. Julie Jacobson longed to unfold a leg or do the side-to-side motion with her jaw that sometimes set off a gratifying series of tiny percussive sounds inside her skull. But if she called attention to herself in any way now, someone might start to wonder why she was here; and really, she knew, she had no reason to be here at all. It had been miraculous when Ash Wolf had nodded to her earlier in the night at the row of sinks and asked if she wanted to come join her and some of the others later. Some of the others. Even that wording was thrilling. 

Also this week  is Teaser Tuesdays. Teaser Tuesdays is a weekly bookish meme, hosted by MizB of Should Be Reading. Anyone can play along! Open to a random page of your current read  and share a teaser sentence from somewhere on that page. BE CAREFUL NOT TO INCLUDE SPOILERS! Share the title & author, too, so that other TT participants can add the book to their TBR Lists if they like your teasers.
Here's my randomly selected teaser from page 64:

Her suite mates were a group of girls as mean as you could ever find, not to mention slatternly, unacademic. It was just a piece of bad luck that she had been put with them. The suite smelled of hot comb. The girls screamed at one another with abandon and contempt, as though this place were some kind of halfway house for the deranged. 

What do you think? Have you read this one?

Dreaming of France -- I See London, I See France

Please join this weekly meme. Grab a copy of the photo above and link back to An Accidental Blog. Share with the rest of us your passion for France. Did you read a good book set in France? See a movie? Take a photo in France? Have an adventure? Eat a fabulous meal or even just a pastry? Or if you're in France now, go ahead and lord it over the rest of us. We can take it.
Although I'm not positive when the new book will be available for purchase, I'm hoping it's on the virtual shelves before Christmas. One thing that is ready -- the new cover.

After a dozen years of marriage and three kids, Caroline's husband walks out in a huff one afternoon. As the separation persists, she decides travel can help her find that joie de vivre she is missing. So she sells her minivan and takes the three kids to Europe. She visits London, Scotland and Paris before settling near friends in Aix en Provence. The color begins to seep back into her life but should she credit the handsome Jean-Marc, her crush from years before? And what will she do about that husband she left behind?
Thanks for playing along with me today.

France Book Tours Wolfsangel & Saturday Snapshot

At the beginning of this book, set in eastern France, we learn that the main character has a secret. It is clear that 68 years after World War II, she still feels guilt over something. 

 As I read Wolfsangel by Liza Perrat, I tried to guess what might have happened. So many awful things happened in World War II. Was she a conspirator? Did she betray someone accidentally because she fell for a handsome German officer?
Wolfsangel focuses on Céleste Roussel, a woman of around 20, as her French village is overrun by German soldiers. Céleste finds herself attracted to a German officer even as she continues perpetual arguments with her mother who has always disapproved of her.
This isn't simply a war story; it's the story of people who can't believe the meanness going on around them. They fight to save those they love. The characters in this novel are passionate and even though I know the overall conclusion of the war, I found myself wondering what would happen at each mission. The story was interesting and quick moving. In addition to Céleste, her brother Patrick, and childhood friends Olivier, Miette, and Ghislaine, join the resistance to defeat the Nazis.
What I didn't like about this novel -- the title or the cover. Neither of them would have pulled me in if I hadn't been asked to review the book. Although the title Wolfsangel is explained as a symbol of the SS German police, and Céleste's older sister is described as an angel, the title didn't resonate with me. The book cover isn't clear to me. The character looks more like a chimney sweep than a resistance fighter and I was never clear about the bird and I couldn't really tell that the building among the smoke was a church.
For me, the book was a pleasant surprise. It had some violence, obviously, since it was set in war time, but it all worked to set an authentic scene.

Here's the synopsis:

Seven decades after German troops march into her village, Céleste Roussel is still unable to assuage her guilt.
1943. German soldiers occupy provincial Lucie-sur-Vionne, and as the villagers pursue treacherous schemes to deceive and swindle the enemy, Céleste embarks on her own perilous mission as her passion for a Reich officer flourishes.
When her loved ones are deported to concentration camps, Céleste is drawn into the vortex of this monumental conflict, and the adventure and danger of French Resistance collaboration.
As she confronts the harrowing truths of the Second World War’s darkest years, Céleste is forced to choose: pursue her love for the German officer, or answer General de Gaulle’s call to fight for her country.
Her fate suspended on the fraying thread of her will, Celeste gains strength from the angel talisman bequeathed to her through her lineage of healer kinswomen.
The decision she makes will shadow the remainder of her days.
A woman’s unforgettable journey to help liberate Occupied France, Wolfsangel is a stirring portrayal of the courage and resilience of the human mind, body and spirit.

Leave a comment to be registered to win a copy of this book. I'll draw a winner on Saturday, Nov. 23.

 Also this week is Saturday Snapshot.
To participate in the Saturday Snapshot meme, post a photo that you (or a friend of family member) have taken. Then leave a direct link to your post on West Metro Mommy. Photos can be old or new, and be of any subject as long as they are clean and appropriate for all eyes to see. How much detail you give in the caption is entirely up to you. Please don't post random photos that you find online.
This is a touristy, kitschy place here in central Ohio. It probably was a corn field originally. Now it's a field full of corn statues. I took it as a panoramic shot, but it doesn't seem to be expanding when you click on it. You'll have to take my word for it that the entire field is full of concrete ears of corn over six feet tall.

College Money Makers

I'm not sure why it took until my third child for me to realize the money making schemes that colleges have going on. I'm not talking about the outrageous tuition either. That's another story.
Colleges make money on people who will never attend there. Some of whom will not even get accepted.
Maybe I'm just realizing it because my other kids focused on small colleges. When they applied to college, they usually had fees waived to apply.
Big public schools though don't waive fees. To apply at Ohio State University costs $60. Last year, about 12,000 students applied to attend, which would bring in around $720,000 just in application fees. Of those 12,000, 7,186 new freshman began attending OSU. I don't know how many of them were not accepted and how many of them chose to go to college somewhere else.
One college that Tucker has been thinking about this year is the University of Miami in Florida. Its communications school has a good reputation, so we planned to let him apply there. Then I looked at the information about the average freshman attending U of Miami. The average, average GPA (grade point of average) of incoming freshman was 4.2. Now 4.0 is a perfect GPA. That means the student received straight As throughout high school.  Yet for U of M, the average was 4.2 which means half the students had higher GPAs than that. (Okay, my math skills aren't great but it must be a number of students with higher GPAs).

U of M was giving Tucker a pretty hard press to apply and when I saw the average GPA, I pointed out that he did not have a GPA nearly high enough to get into the school. The application fee was $70. So the schools work very hard sending out letters, emails, making phone calls to get students to apply even when they can never be accepted into the school.
Then I looked at the U of M statistics and they will receive 28,900 applications. At 70 bucks per student, that's over $2 million in application fees. Only 2000 students will be accepted.

So that's when I began to realize that college applications are a scam too.
One friend told me that her son decided to apply at colleges that don't have an application fee then to go visit the places where he was accepted.
Tucker wants to attend a large college though, so I suppose there isn't a way to avoid paying fees. I am trying to limit the fees to schools I think might be a good fit.

FranceBookTours -- WolfsAngel Excerpt & Giveaway

For France Book Tours, I'm reviewing the historical fiction novel Wolfsangel by Liza Perrat set in France during World War II.
I don't want to give anything away, but the tension is high as the resistance fights again the German occupiers and the main character flirts with a German officer in hopes of gaining information.
Check back on Saturday for a full review.
For today, please enjoy this excerpt from Wolfsangel and leave a comment to be registered to win --two ebook giveaways in the U.S. and one signed paperback in Europe.

 We gather in the cemetery, before the ossuary, with

the straggle of other remaining survivors and their
families. Our heads dipped, the mayor begins his
memorial speech to commemorate the tragedy that became a
legend around these parts; the evil that part of me still believes
was the result of my own reckless actions.
There isn’t a region in France that didn’t pay the price of war
with the blood of its children, but here in the village of Luciesur-
Vionne one can truly contemplate the depths to which the
pure devilry of man was cast.
The chill of last winter stole my husband, and though my
extended family are with me, I feel lonely without him by my
side, remembering the fateful afternoon that has tormented me
for sixty-eight years — the sickening odour of charred flesh, the
smoke parching my throat, the green-brown blur of the woods
as I fled the clomp of German boots. My fingertips skitter across
the scar on my left arm, eternal reminder of that inconceivable
climb, then the free-fall of an unstrung puppet, and the certainty
that I too would die any second.
My conscience might have been soothed if I’d been punished;
if I’d had to pay somehow, but by then there was barely a soul left
to sit in judgement.
Perhaps that’s why I chose to become a midwife, bringing
new lives into a world from which I’d taken so many. Or, as my
mother claimed, the birthing skills were simply in my blood.
I glance across at my granddaughter, who wears the bone
angel necklace these days. She’s gripping the pendant between
her thumb and forefinger as I used to; as countless kinswomen
of L’Auberge des Anges did before us. I touch the spot where it
once lay against my own breast, feeling its warmth as if I were
still wearing the little sculpture.
I wonder again if my daughter and granddaughter truly
understand what that heirloom endured with me through those
years of the occupation. Can they grasp the comfort, the strength
it gave me? I doubt it. You’d have to live through a thing like that
to really know how it was.
My eyes slide down the list of names engraved on the ossuary’s
marble plaque, their cries, curses and laughter chiming in my
ears as if it were yesterday.
The breeze catches the perfume of lilacs and splays the
velvety heads of the red roses, like opened hearts, as the mayor
concludes his sombre speech. We stand in silence for a minute,
remembering those who never got the chance to grow old —
loved ones who perished for our freedom.
From beside the row of the oldest, grandest headstones, the
band strikes up La Marseillaise, the trumpets drowning out
shrill birdsong and the low hum of a passing tractor.
We trudge out of the cemetery and head along the woodland
path to the Vionne River for a picnic lunch, as we do every year.
It’s part of the ritual.
Ip, ip trills a bird. Ga, ga cackles another. A dragonfly hovers
over a seam of current that folds the waters of the river across
stones, ferns and errant flower heads. The Vionne displays her
illusion of tranquillity, though I know, better than most, that it
has claimed victims — witches of the Dark Ages punished by
drowning, and the children who perished two centuries ago, for
whom a stone memorial cross sits on the ridge.
I think of the others who died here — those who have no
such memorial; not the slightest trace, for rain and snow have
long since washed away the bloodstains. I have always wondered
who found them and where they were buried, and if it weren’t
for a dog-eared sepia photograph gathering dust in a secreted
wooden box, I might convince myself they had never existed.
After the picnic, my daughter offers to drive me home to the
farm. No, thank you very much, I tell her, I’m only eighty-nine,
still quite capable of walking back to L’Auberge.
L’Auberge des Anges, haven for weary travellers, orphans and
refugees, which has withstood centuries of plague, revolution
and war, reclines on the crest of the slope like a solid matriarch.
I shuffle through the wooden gateway, the sun flinging its
warmth across the cobbled courtyard, the pink puffs of cherry
blossom and the white backsides of rabbits bobbing through the
orchard.
My daughter fancies herself as an artist and as I negotiate
the uneven cobbles, I dodge the collection of sculptures she
has fashioned from scrap metal, waste and discarded objects —
effigies of our loved ones who never came home. The official
document confirming their deaths didn’t arrive until 1948 but it
seemed we’d already mourned them for a lifetime.
Curious travellers who have heard of the tragedy stop off in
Lucie-sur-Vionne on their way south, or west to the Atlantic
coast, for summer holidays. Once they’ve toured the legendary
site they find their way up here to L’Auberge des Anges, and
wander amongst my daughter’s sculptures. They ask us who the
people were, and they want to know about Max, as they admire
his paintings in the gallery.
I climb the steps, wincing as another barb pierces my frail
shell. It appears from nowhere, this guilt I claimed from the
smouldering wake of that evil reprisal. I know it will shadow
me for days, weeks or months. Then, as winter seems to have
settled forever, spring arrives, and my self-reproach will vanish
for a time, only to return to the same dark nooks of my mind,
the cycle beginning again.
No one ever knew for certain why they marched into Lucie
sur-Vionne that hot June morning of 1944, but it is a crime I
have never been able to forget. Nor can I forgive. Least of all
myself.

I'll see you again on Saturday with my review. And leave a comment either today or Saturday or both to be entered to win a copy.

Entertaining Out-of-Town Visitors

Our friends' son, Nicolas, 27, came to visit for two evenings and we needed to figure out how to entertain him. He came to Columbus in between New York City and Chicago, so obviously we were never going to live up to either of those.

The problem is that Columbus' motto is "It's a great place to live, but you wouldn't want to visit."

I had only one secret weapon to make the stay worthwhile -- a 21-year-old daughter. And I do think he enjoyed the stay because he and Grace went out on the town both nights.

During the day on Monday, we ate lunch at Dirty Franks -- it's a hot dog place. We figured that was pretty American. 

We visited an Indian Mound and explained that they dot the countryside around Ohio. Some of them are much more exciting, like Serpent Mound, but is more than an hour away.

I wanted to take Nicolas to a place that no one else would, so I drove to the Field of Corn. Only in Ohio. It's a field with statues of giant corn. I plan to post a panoramic photo on Saturday, so don't miss it.

Next we visited Chief Leatherlips, which is a statue built into the bank of the Scioto River. Chief Leatherlips didn't even do anything that exciting, but he is memorialized here and you can walk on his head. 

The highlight of the day for me, was the soiree we planned that evening. In addition to eating and drinking, my friend Pam busted open the piano and there was singing too. I served goat cheese pasta with shrimp and a green salad. When Nicolas saw the salad dressing, he offered to make a vinaigrette, but I said it was an American meal so he had to eat the bottled salad dressing. I promised that it had no GMOs and only real ingredients without chemical sounding names. 

I was most worried about the wine, but I had a chardonnay from Italy (bought at Trader Joe's for only $4.99 per bottle, don't tell!) and he proclaimed it good wine. 

For dessert, turtle cake with a layer of chocolate cake, a caramel and butter layer, then chocolate chips and another layer of chocolate cake. We had a New York Riesling with dessert.

When everyone left, Grace and Nicolas headed down the street to the local bar again. Apparently he was quite popular there with people buying him shots and guessing where he was from. No one guessed France, although someone guessed Belgium. "How could they guess Belgium and not France?" he raged. "Belgium is so small."

A lovely visit.  

Dreaming of France -- French Hosts

Please join this weekly meme. Grab a copy of the photo above and link back to An Accidental Blog. Share with the rest of us your passion for France. Did you read a good book set in France? See a movie? Take a photo in France? Have an adventure? Eat a fabulous meal or even just a pastry? Or if you're in France now, go ahead and lord it over the rest of us. We can take it.
Maybe we can all satisfy our yearnings for France, until we get there again.
I'm busy preparing for our French visitor who is now spending two nights. I have a dinner party set up for Monday evening and decided nothing will be more American than going out for Mexican tonight.
Our young friend Nicolas has watched his parents play host to Earl and me many times. I hope we make him feel equally welcome.
Here's a picture from one of our visits to Nicolas' parents in Nantes. The French make it look so effortless to host people. 

The table is set beautifully.

 
The cheese cart is ready for after dinner.

The teenage boys have hearty appetites and impeccable manners. 

The dessert wine is superb.

Wish me luck as I work on my hostessing skills.

Thanks for playing along today.