Well it’s our last day here at the office until January so to celebrate, as well as having Ballerina and The Memory of Trees at half-price on our website, we have also reduced the price of Gabriel’s Gate on Kindle to €2.60 + VAT…
A very Merry Christmas to you all! (“,) – The Book Republic Team.
Bookstores break down books according to genre for easy shelving and categorization. Agents and editors do it so they can tell writers what they like and are looking for. As helpful as this is to the business and the reader, this can seriously mess a writer up — especially if they aren’t sure what genre they fall into.
I can’t tell you how often I see “what genre is this?” posts on the writers’ boards. I always feel for the writer, because it has to be frustrating to be so unsure what you’re writing. But here’s a tip:
Not every book falls into a genre. Sometimes it’s just fiction.
“Genre” is a term that refers to the books that have some strong element in them that defines them as a particular type of book. There are required tropes, and if you don’t have those, you’re not that genre. Readers expect to see those tropes and are disappointed if they’re not there. Read more>>>
Don’t Tell Me I Can’t is now available to buy at the Amazon Kindle store at the great price of $5.99 + VAT.
Born without arms or legs due to Thalidomide, life could have turned out very differently. From growing up in a working class family during the Troubles of Northern Ireland, to the USA and back again, this story is of one woman’s determination to live life to the full.
Through support of family and friends, as well as sheer determination Leigh overcame prejudices, lived through the Troubles in Northern Ireland, escaped life with an alcoholic husband while raising two babies, only to find love again.
This is not the story of a “victim” but instead one of a woman who has learned and grown through the experiences life has thrown her way, has never let anyone steal her dreams and is still an activist working for dignity and respect for all people with disabilities.
The launch of Diary of a Ryde by Joanna Ryde is taking place this evening at 6.30pm inAndrew’s Lane Theatre, Dublin 2. There will be performances by Joanna and her dancers as well as a drinks promo, and the book will be for sale at €14.99. All are very welcome to attend!
Have a browse through our new ‘eBooks‘ page on The Book Republic Blog. Many of our titles are priced at €2.99 and under to celebrate the Christmas period…
On a dreary day like this, I would recommend reading a book that takes place in a sunnier part of the world…
For a limited time only, The L.A. Commandments – Gillian Duffy is only $2.99 + VAT at the Amazon Kindle store.
Enjoy!
The L.A. Commandments – Gillian Duffy
Joanne Kavanagh and best friend Suzie pack their bags and swap dreary, depressing Dublin for the cool Californian coast. Both are determined to start a new life in the land of opportunity, leaving behind the recession and their complicated families.
They make a pact at the airport to stick religiously to the ‘LA Commandments’, a list of ten ‘Thou Shalt Nots’ for their new life in LA, including ‘Thou Shall Not Fall in Love,’ but when Jo befriends sexy, shy musician Marc, and Suzie falls for womanizing bar-man Chris, not only are the commandments at risk of being broken, but also the girls’ hearts…
With all California has to offer —sunshine, shopping, killer nightlife, and drop-dead-gorgeous men, will the girls stay faithful to the LA Commandments?
Seeing as it’s banned booked week, Book Republic decided to give you our top ten list of banned books. Many of the books which are banned shocked us so its an eye opening read, enjoy!
Here is a listing of then books that are controversial and often become banned in American schools. This list was not picked based on the number of challenges or bans in place. Instead, it was a sampling of the different variety of books that are banned or challenged each year.The list looks at more popular books that are often objected to. Much of the information concerning the reasons for the challenges came for the American Library Association.
This book by Mark Twain has been challenged and banned in numerous locations and times because of its incessant use of racial slurs including the “n” word.
This book by J.D. Salinger uses profanity throughout along with the portrayal of events like prostitution, depression and ailenation.
The novel by Haper Lee has been challenged over the years for its use of profanity and racal slurs.
This book by Katherine Paterson was recently turned into a movie by Disney. It has been challenged or banned because of the disrespect the children show to adults, the confusion of combining fantasy with reality, and profanity.
This novel by William Golding has been challenged and in many cases banned because of its use of profanity, sexuality, racial slurs, and excessive violence.
This novel by John Steinbeck has been banned because of its use of profanity. Often cited are the use of the Lord’s name in vain along with the use of racial slurs.
The Pulitzer prize winner novel b Alice Walker has been challenged and banned over the years because of its explicit sexuality, profanity, violence, and use of drugs.
These books by J.K Rowling have become a frequent target as they are often challenged and sometimes banned. The most common reason cited is the use of witchcraft and the fear that fantasy and reality could become confused for children. However, some challenges have arisen over the violence it portrays.
Kurt Vonnegut’s has been challenged and banned because of its profanity, violence, and explicit sexuality.
This novel by Toni Morrison was one of the most challenged in 2006 for its profanity, sexual references, and unsuitability for students.
Source: http://www.about.com
Here is a September Short Story from Craig Towsley, who wrote a very entertaining tale about the goings-on at a particular dinner party. Well done on the story, Craig, and here it is for you all to read…
Randolph Garr sat midway down the left side of the dinner table. Three places away from the head of the table. Which was fine with him. The more chairs between Peterson him, the better. Peterson peered at him over the edge of his glass. Garr nodded and sipped at his bourbon.
It was Peterson’s birthday, a surprise dinner thrown by his wife, with all his closest friends. Garr thought it telling that he had been invited. He smiled. Poor old Peterson couldn’t fill a table. Couldn’t fill a cup, Garr thought.
They worked together. Peterson had been at his throat since he started. Garr saw it for what it was: the panicked fear of an old, jealous man, and acted accordingly. The only reason he had been invited was because the president of the company liked to think of the business as a family, and families ate and celebrated together.
The president, Mr. Kantz, sat to the left of Peterson and smiled down the table benevolently. His eyes were bright and you couldn’t help but like the man, even if he walked around half-blind. Beside him was Mrs. Kantz, who sucked on thick pink peppermints to hide the scotch on her breath.
Mrs. Peterson’s parents sat across from him. Their heads slumped between weakened shoulders and long noses made Garr think of turkey vultures.
Garr was hemmed in on both sides by men so fat and bland and wheezing that they should have been brothers. The one to his left droned on about interest rates on a mine he owned. And the other about a mine he was interested in. Garr let their two sonorous voices mould together into one constant buzz which he could nod at and ignore.
Instead he watched the girl across the table and two chairs up. Mr. Kantz introduced her as his niece, Mildred. Right now the poor girl was trapped in Mrs. Peterson’s jewelled talons. Her sharp, too-red fingernails wrapped firmly around the girl’s thin, creamy white arm as she talked about her days in Paris as a young woman, and how the niece simply must make time to be there herself.
Mildred smiled politely and listened intently. But Garr noticed the sidelong glance she threw towards him as she placed a wisp of straw-coloured hair behind her ear. He watched her slender, unadorned finger graze the lobe as she returned her hand to her wine glass. Garr tried to look away but was drawn back. More than drawn, he thought, he was impelled to stare at the delicate slope of her neck and shoulders. Her lips remained parted constantly, invitingly. Her green eyes deeper than any pool.
Garr sipped at his drink and tried to control himself.
A steak tougher than an old saddle was set in front of him. He concentrated on eating. He jutted his elbows out, digging into the brown sides of the bores beside him, as the saw-toothed knife worked through the meat.
Garr managed to make it through the dinner without choking on the leather or being crushed by boredom. He stood before the fire and smoked. The rest of the party was settled at the far end of the living room, sipping from ceramic tea cups. The lot of them were talking about a recent deal that fell through and Garr abhorred thinking about work outside of the office. He set his drink down on the mantle and saw Mildred, one thin elbow resting on the mantle.
Garr realized she was somehow more beautiful when standing, or maybe it was just she was standing before him. Her green eyes looked through him, and he almost turned to see what trophy might be hanging from the wall behind him.
“Dreadfully dull, isn’t it?,” she said. Garr smiled and agreed. They began talking, saying the normal things, where they were from, what school they attended, where they had travelled. For once Garr found this type of conversation fascinating. Mildred painted pictures with her words. He saw himself at her boarding school lunchroom as she talked of schoolgirl mischief, and sitting in the smoke-filled train as she described the Spanish countryside.
The rest of the party, those envious dullards, noticed their lively conversation. Peterson sat in his high-backed chair and seemed to take their enjoyment as a personal affront. While Mildred lit her cigarette, Garr noticed his grumbling to the others, and then standing and striding across the room like some rusted suit of armour.
“I haven’t yet thanked you for coming, Garr,” Peterson said, interrupting Mildred. Garr smiled and assured the older man he was glad to be there.
“Has young Garr here been telling you of his exploits, little one?” Peterson asked Mildred. “How dazzling his rise in the company has been? From stock boy to clerk to partner in five years? Hell, most likely, he’ll be soon taking the reins from your dear uncle and booting us all from the wagon!”
Peterson slapped Garr hard on the shoulder, spilling the bourbon out from its glass.
“Actually,” Mildred said, “I was just telling Randolph here of my trip through the Pyrenees.”
“Randolph?” Peterson said, cutting the girl off. “I’ve seen young bucks like him many a time. They climb fast but burn out quick. Won’t be long before he’s nothing but ash and embers.”
Garr had enough. He set his empty glass on the mantle. Then he turned and socked Peterson in the jaw. The older man stepped back twice and fell to his ass. He sat there, legs splayed wide, his hand on his cheek, dim eyes looking up. The rest of the party remained seated, shock bolting their shoes to the carpet.
“Some people age as wine, Peterson,” Garr said. “You have more in common with milk.”
While everyone sat dumb, he thanked Mildred for the lovely evening and said he hoped to see her again. Mildred kissed him lightly on the cheek and said the same.
He shook hands with the Katz’, the bores, the vultures and told Mrs. Peterson that the steak had been delicious. He told them not to bother to get up, he could see himself out. Randolph Garr closed the heavy front door behind him and walked down the street smiling.
The stories coming in have been great so far, keep them coming!
Here is one of our September Short Stories, sent into us from Lucy via Tumblr (ours-isthefury). We very much enjoyed your story, Lucy; here it is for the rest of you to read!
It is a split second decision, and before he knows it, he’s made the wrong one.
He could have stayed with everyone else and shared their fate. But instead he chooses to get onto the lifeboat and sail away from it all. As his foot touches the wooden floor of the lifeboat he knows he has made the wrong decision, but it’s too late to go back now, and before he knows it someone is pushing him to sit down and the boat starts to lower.
At first the occupants of the boat are too distraught and scared to notice the first-class man who sits amongst them, and they sob into the hankies and hug their children, calling back up at the boat. Some even fight to get off of the lifeboat and to get back onto the ship. Joseph’s heart wills his legs to move and do the same in the vain hope that he would not be seen as a coward, but his head tells him to stay put and stay silent. So he does.
He keeps his head down, his eyes focus on the water that splatters his brand new leather shoes. He cannot help but think that they are ruined. Revulsion at that thought makes him lift his eyes to where they departed from. The lights on the ship flicker almost poetically, flashing against the midnight sky. He can still hear the cries of those less fortunate than him who remain on the ship, and it makes him feel queasy. But not guilty.
For the entirety of the journey the other passengers do not notice the misplaced man in the midst of women. They just mourn for the lost. Some pray to God that he should deliver those left back to them. They pray that there is enough lifeboats to save their loved ones.
Joseph knows there is not, but he does not speak out. Keeping quiet seems the more sensible option. Soon the sobs and cries turn to silence and only the lapping of the water and grunt of the rowers can be heard. It is not the peaceful kind of silence that allows for calm thoughts and serenity, but rather a deafening silence, so overwhelming that Joseph just wants to jump from his seat and scream at the heavens. The hours pass as hours do, neither fast nor slow, just filled with more unanswered prayers. A ship comes into view when the sun is still sleeping, but the light of the windows give it away. For a brief passing moment Joseph thinks that it is the Titanic with its large hull and impressive stature. He knows he is wrong when he spots the gleaming word ‘CARPATHIA’ upon its hull. No one makes a noise to notify the ship. They already seem to know that they are there.
It is harder to go unnoticed as they board the rescue ship. Everyone seems to know who he is and the accusing eyes follow him everywhere. He does not stop to talk to the survivors, they hold no words of comfort, but heads straight to a high-rank officer, who directs him to the ship doctor’s quarters. He notes that the finery on his ship was far more appealing to the eye, and rich looking. The fabrics are the cheap version of what he used, and the rooms are most certainly smaller. He wants to make a comment about it, then he remembers that it doesn’t matter because his ship will be close to the bottom of the ocean by now.
He permits only one visitor whilst he is aboard the Carpathia, and does not leave the room. He would like to say that it was shame that kept him in his room, but he knows that isn’t true. He just doesn’t have the taste for social company at the present climate.
He plans to be fast off the ship and sail again straight away, avoiding the enquiries that will no doubt follow. He has nothing to hide, he just has nothing to say. However, he forgets that he is not invisible, and is spotted leaving, forcing him to be led to the questioning.
He is asked to defend his actions of leaving his ship whilst other men, women and children were served a watery grave. He says that it was an accident, by the time he was in the lifeboat it was too late to get out. He claims he wanted to go back to help, but there was no possible way. He says that he wishes it was him that was lying dead at the bottom of the ocean, in the place of another.
But it is a lie. He does not wish to be dead. It goes against every basic survival instinct, and no matter how hard he tries, he cannot ignore nature. He can tell that they don’t believe him either. Their raised eyebrows and bored expressions show that all too clearly.
When he is allowed to leave and go home they mock him in the streets, point fingers and call him names. J. Brute Ismay they call him. The wife who is cheating on her husband points the finger, sneering harsh words. The father who beats his children on a daily basis refuses to serve him a drink in the pub.
He looks at the people who call him names and condemn him for his actions, and wonders what they would have done in his situation. Mostly he concludes that they would have done the same as him, and chosen life over death. Some would have felt guilty about it, but most of them would not have.
He wonders what people would have thought of him if he had stayed aboard the ship and sunk with it? Would people remember his name, and instead of sneer at it, raise their glasses to it? These are the thoughts that plague him at night, but what is more disturbing is the answer that his mind comes to. He would rather have people sneer at him, than have them raise their glass to a dead person.
Have you sent us in you story yet? If not, then click here to do so now – more stories to follow!
A few days ago, I read about a writer, quite well known, who said that she had given up because it was taking too much valuable time from her family life. She said she loved her new career in pottery, but I still thought it was a pity she wasn’t able to balance her time so that she could enjoy family life and writing life.
Time is one of the biggest stumbling blocks that aspiring writers encounter. ‘I don’t have enough time,’ they say. ‘I wish I could find the time.’
But the truth is, if you really want to write, you’ll find the time.
This might sound like a very arrogant thing to say from someone who doesn’t have a job outside writing, doesn’t have children and doesn’t have a husband (yet!). But time isn’t the real issue. The real issue is fear. That and the natural human tendency to take the easy route. It’s so much easier to channel surf or go on Facebook than face the blank page or computer screen.
Even in the busiest life, there are little pockets of time that you can use for your writing. Our creative writing tutor had us map out our time on a spreadsheet to help us figure out where those pockets were. And there are always more of them than you think.
Early Mornings
Are you a morning person? Why not take advantage of the stillness and peace in the house while everyone else is asleep. It’s an easy way to snatch time for yourself without interrupting the rhythm of your work and family life. Or you could swap a book for a notebook on your daily commute.
A Writing Lunch
Do you read while you’re eating your lunch at work? Why not swap the book for a notebook? It might mean that you need to escape to your car, but giving your mind a break from the cycle of work will energise it for the afternoon. If you enjoy socialising with your colleagues, you could still do it at the coffee break.
While You’re Waiting
We spend a good bit of our lives these days waiting, in a queue at the bank, in a doctor’s surgery, or on hold while you’re on the phone. Writing doesn’t have to take place in a sacred, silent space. You could be waiting a long time to find one. If your life is hectic, you write where and when you can. And at least you won’t have to silently fume at the time you’re wasting.
In the Evenings
Evenings are the time when we slump into a happy torpor in front of the telly, or curl up with a good book. Writing can be the last thing on our minds. But it’s also the longest stretch of time we have in a day. And for night people, it’s when they’re most alert. Besides, delving into another world can be a very relaxing way to spend time. Like a holiday for your brain. And you don’t even have to miss your favourite programmes – you can Sky Plus them.
The best news of all is that you don’t need to spend hours every day writing your masterpiece. All you need is 10 minutes. In 10 minutes, if you write like fury, you could end up with 300 words. That’s 2,100 words per week. And more than 100,000 words in a year. Even if you wrote nothing, you’d still be moving your writing forward by taking the time to think. Put in those terms, your writing goals will be a lot more attainable. And your fear barrier will melt away.
– Derbhile Dromey, author of The Pink Cage
The Book Republic Blog 