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As a freelance writer, my professional experience is limited; besides penning six novels (the seventh is currently in the works) I’ve only been reviewing books for a ‘real’ publication for five months. Before that, my expertise was limited to posting blogs on a handful of literature-inclined websites. Upon being hired as a serious reviewer, I felt eager to read as many books as possible; getting free books hot off the press adds to the ‘mystique’ of this, particular industry.
The age-old perceptions of ‘critics’ yet appears to hold true: an elite group of hallowed citizens, whose opinion is sought out by magazines and newspapers nationwide. As appealing the idea of becoming one of ‘them’ someday, I cannot forget what it feels like to receive criticism of your own hard work. A step back when reading any given piece is therefore necessary, to evaluate not only the first impression of the prose but also to hold up the goggles of creativity, to strive to see what the writer(s) meant to write. Thus, as I am reading a certain kind of mutual respect wells up within me, vying with matched force the more critical aspect of the job. The human eyelid is adept at changing perception, however; with each blink my mind’s eye travels back and forth between writer and critic. This almost yin-and-yang struggle produces a unique form of literary stress; where most read for pure pleasure or learning, the reviewer must read with squinted, hawk-like eyes, always vigilant for glaring mistakes, yet all the while striving to enjoy the book as a reader would.
I recently read an encouraging perspective on the issue of creativity VS criticism, one which re-buoyed my enthusiasm for reviewing more books; it came in the form of a prologue for a book I am reviewing for the upcoming August publication. The writer weighed critics against writers and came across so well in his prose that I was immediately at ease and able to soak in his arguments. The main premise put forth was that writers made the best critics, as they understood the anguish and sweat that goes into each beloved piece and feel passion for writing in general, unable to flippantly dismiss a piece without really looking at it… or at least finding something good to say about it.
As one-sided as his– or my own–opinion would be as a writer, reading the few lines on the subject once again affirmed in my mind the responsibility of a reviewer: to give an impression without cruelty, balanced with prior pieces read and bearing in mind the classic pieces of the ages and yet, never forgetting to return to viewing a piece with an inquisitive reader’s eye.
Having one of the most famous opening paragraphs in Literature 
notwithstanding, this long tale stands on three solid pillars… along with a whole host of decorative posts.
Pillar one is the historical detail, accurate to the very last aristocratic cruel glare above a laced, starched collar. The strong, ever-moving plot follows and stitches the bits of London and Paris history together into a finely woven story, one that echoes long-forgotten epic ballads, though in true literary form. The last pillar is the drama itself… not overly done, not poured so fast that the plot drowns as a spindly seedling in a lake; Dickens caught up fistfuls of the rampant emotion present during that tumultuous time, hearkening forth the bloodcurdling bawls of long-maligned peasants whipped into a frenzy by the madness of mob rule. This review will not reveal all but merely attempt to incite curiosity in readers to entrench themselves in this classic book.
It is difficult to remember throughout this story that this is indeed a ‘Dickens’ book… an author known for his rather hopeful stories, whose plots tend to lean heavily on the milk of human kindness. Though Dickens excelled in painting humans as they are with his pen, this tome is by far his most macabre in flavor… yet, I knew as I read it that this was due more to the actual events than to the writer, for historical accounts show that despite one or two literary straying from known paths into storytelling, this piece may have almost been a chronological account of the revolution in question.
The tale begins as most great stories do, with an innocent person suffering an enormous wrong by greedy overlords bent by decades of excess, wont to do as they please. This ‘beginning’ is gradually revealed as the plot goes along similar to now movies use flashbacks to give background filler. I digress: a young peasant girl falls victim to a particular, tyrannical aristocrat; as she is laboring to give birth to the nobleman’s bastard a local doctor, Alexandre Manette, is called in to assist. Tragically, he is unable to save her or the child, and for some reason instead of merely warning the doctor into silence about the scene he’s just witnessed, the aristocrat ushered the good man into a waiting, blanketed carriage and hustles him off to the worst place in all France: the Bastille prison.
Though the good man wishes to decry his chains, Manette’s name is written down in the prison ledger and he is closeted away in one of the foul, stinking cells of stone. There he remains for 18 years, not knowing how his servants or young daughter are or how to contact them. Eventually one of his former servants Defarge finds him and is allowed to care for the man. Defarge and his oddly cold wife Therese run a wine shop and secretly nurture a blossoming secret revolutionary group referred to as ‘Jacques’, a name taken from an actual French Revolution group, the Jacquerie. Therese has her own dark reasons for zealously provoking rebellion, which are revealed later in the book.
Time goes on; Dr. Manette’s daughter Lucie (a lovely, sweet-tempered girl) is cared for by the capable, motherly housekeeper, laboring under the delusion that her father is dead. Eventually Tellson’s Bank in London gets word somehow of Manette’s real condition and in order to verify the information (the reason involved money) sends an astute and dedicated employee named Jarvis Lorry to Lucie, explains that her father is alive and enlists her help; normally a young girl that that time would have been a traveling liability, but Lorry is clever enough to know that 18 years in the Bastille may have thrown a damper on Manette’s reasoning ability, and that seeing his daughter may slowly snap him out of it. This thinking proves correct. They find Defarge, whom leads them to a cell where a half-catatonic, wasted Manette sits, making shoes in a compulsory manner, having severely withdrawn into his own mind. Eventually, the sight of his daughter’s golden tresses stirs a small memory in his mind, and he grows to recognize her and know himself again. Lucie and Lorry liberate him and carry him back to England to convalesce in the arms of family and devoted servants. Thus ends the first third of the book, and one of the few happier moments. Two more parts lead these characters into a web of mystery, love and finally, resolve.
Not only for readers but writers, this tome is well worth the time and energy required to read and enjoy the historical drama, well-developed characters and genteel intrigue overshadowed by the hideous wraith of revolution. Few today write as well or as honestly as Dickens.
What a fantastic tool for new authors.
PDF is fast becoming last year’s news; our customer have hinted heavily that they want a better formatted system for their PDAs as PDF is just too wide and cumbersome for viewing. Since most folks are switching from average cell phone to PDA, we decided to go hunting for an eBook service/software that could format our books into PDA compatible files.
We found MobiPocket… a French-based company that had the foresight to be new/unpublished author friendly not only in categorization but in their software. Its free to download, fairly straight-forward to use and they provide their customers with free reader software that is highly customizable.
As a result, they have thousands of quality, single-format eBooks on their site (mobipocket.com); I was so impressed with the quality of the cover graphics presented that I re-did a few of our just to put them up alongside and not look too shabby. They do take a percentage of the book’s sale revenue, so figure that into your price when you are configuring your upload.
How it works: if you use Word it will be easier. You download their publisher free software and upload your Word file. It converts your book into a Word html file which you can edit a little in Word as well (to space out your chapters. It tends to lump them together a little.) The wizard then walks you through uploading your cover, tweaking the settings, compression and encryption. You also get the option of putting in a synopsis or free chapter, along with any reviews you want to include. Then you set up a publishers account with user name (still free), upload and activate your books individually. Your books show up on their site within seconds.
Here are some of our book listings: (We’ll have all seven up by Sunday.)
http://www.mobipocket.com/en/eBooks/eBookDetails.asp?BookID=125156
http://www.mobipocket.com/en/eBooks/eBookDetails.asp?BookID=125165
http://www.mobipocket.com/en/eBooks/eBookDetails.asp?BookID=125162
http://www.mobipocket.com/en/eBooks/eBookDetails.asp?BookID=125182
All in all we give this site two thumbs up, considering the small percentage taken, the broad category ability, the fairly equal advertising and that it connects to your PayPal account, for free. Good luck writers. May you reach all available PDAs worldwide.
Meredith Greene
Our house is quiet this evening; though it is often so, it has been unusually still at night this whole week. My oldest daughter, having found that Pride and Prejudice was a far better story in book form than any film version could possibly be, is sitting on the futon with her nose inside the final pages, her eyes moving with great rapidity. Faced with the rather unexpected discovery that reading can be fun, my son is on the rug with his school readers in a pile before him; every once in awhile he nods to himself, his little eyebrows in a knot of concentration. Behind him my husband is seated on his large chair, a newspaper open to the business section; the two littlest girls are asleep in their respective corners, one with her face plastered on a picture book page. I sit on my writing couch, with a stack of C. S. Forrester’s tomes by my elbow, looking up every once in awhile to admire the serenity; it floats about the room like drifts of autumn leaves on a perfumed zephyr.
From the moment I began writing it has been my firm belief that in order to write a good book, one must read a wide selection of books before, during and after any particular project. The Editor and I are currently halfway through the second novel in the ‘America’ series, weaving a story about 1900s immigrant families using our own ancestors’ tales as an example.
Besides Forrester, on the table by my couch Shakespeare’s ‘Henry the Fifth’ is in the stack… to add a pinch of drama, political villainy and poetic speech. Jane Austen’s ‘Persuasion ‘also sits nearby for not only romance-tinges notions but speech sparkly with wit. Burroughs leans against Dumas on the table to hopefully impart some fine storytelling with edgy throes of action intermixed. The War of the Worlds sits in the back, silently reminding me with each glance that a writer cannot ignore tragedy, whether real or imagined.
How good it is to have a collection of authors at hand, readily available for reach and reading, for perusal and the occasional gleaning of ideas, along with slightly nagging criticisms flowing as a perpetual undercurrent; these remind me quietly, persistently, that the words a writer threads together can always be improved. As I read the famous passages I find myself admitting how inferior my novels are in comparison. Being humbled is healthy, however; it makes me want to click open the laptop and type furiously away, re-working my old material until it reaches another, higher level.
In an age of talking heads constantly speaking phrases like ‘self-assurance’ and ‘self-confidence’, it feels almost refreshing to read silent admonitions from authors long gone, to compare one’s work to theirs and find it wanting more attentions than previously supposed. In the back of my mind, I cannot help but wonder if these same writers did as I am doing, comparing themselves to the ancient masters of the pen, to poets and saga speakers whom could wind the word about the ear and feed the soul, all seemingly without effort. Did their admiration for aulde accomplishments spur them onward towards greatness? Indubitably, for here I am enjoying the fruit of their fevered, dedicated labors. Once again the book immersion has performed that which I hoped it would, for inspiration flows in like a tide… slow, steady and almost blissfully overwhelming.
Meredith Greene
