Interview with Vernon Baker

An interview with Vernon Baker, author of 

Slow Boat to Purgatory. 

Tell us a little about yourself. Where did you grow up? You're a Red Sox fan - how does a California kid become a Red Sox fan?

• • Well, I grew up in Southern California. We moved to Maine in 2001 when we found our property and fell in love with the Maine coast. In summer, that is. My family is all from the East coast - Boston, the Cape, and so I was indoctrinated into Redsox nation from day one. 
    
    

Who was Vernon Baker before he was a writer? 

• • Ha! I like the sound of that, “writer”. I have done a lot of different things up to this point, from law enforcement to owning a handful of businesses. I've been an entrepreneur my whole life, which I think is going to pay off in my new career as a writer. These days, being an author means being in business for yourself. That excites me almost as much as the writing.

Can you tell us a little bit about this book? 

• • Slow Boat To Purgatory is Book One in a series that features three main characters. 
    
    
    The first is Gaspar de Rouse, an immortal Templar Knight who is murdered in 1291 after he is entrusted with an earth shattering secret. He’s resurrected by an archangel and given a second chance to redeem himself. 
    
    
    The second character is Alex Dononvan. Alex is a former Navy Seal who retired after a disastrous mission that left his team dead and him with a career-ending injury. Alex's grandfather dies and leaves him a vast fortune, but more importantly, an ancient manuscript that tells the story of Gaspar. Alex, as his grandfather was, becomes enthralled with the story and sets off to find the immortal knight.
    
    
    The third character is Dominicus Bureau, a catholic priest who belongs to a modern day version of the Knights Templars, one that has been in pursuit of Gaspar, and the secret he guards, for hundreds of years. 
    
    
    All three of these very dangerous men are on a collision course that I am enjoying scripting.

You and Gaspar were "acquainted" for a while before you told his story? What inspired you to set pen to paper?  

• • I have been writing little snippets featuring Gaspar for about three years. One day a couple of years ago I saw Gustave Dore’s illustration of Charon, the boatman from Dante’s Inferno and the idea for Slow Boat To Purgatory began to germinate. It took root when I ended up putting Gaspar into Charon’s boat.

Describe your typical writing day. What time of day do you write? 

• • My writing day? Ha! My wife and I have two children, a four year old and an eight month old. Plus I have my day job running a small resort and my night job running a restaurant. Writing happens when I am able to catch a breath and a clear headed moment. I do make myself write every day, something, anything. And I try to read something everyday. I guess most of it gets done at night when the house is quiet. I write large chunks in the winter when our businesses are closed. There’s nothing better than handwriting while sitting with your toes buried in sand. 

 You've done an enormous amount of research for Gaspar's story. Tell us about that.

• • As far as research goes, I thank Al Gore every night for the internet. I have been lucky enough to have traveled to many of the places I write about and my hope is that I am able to sell enough books that I can continue to travel to far flung corners of the world on “research” trips.

What are you working on now?

 

• • I’m working on two things currently. I am about 40% of the way through “The Arimathean” which is the follow-up to Slow Boat, Book Two in the series. That should be in print by Christmas, depending on whether our eight-month-old starts sleeping or not. I’m also working on another book that features an angel who wakes up in a monastery and has no idea why he is on earth. Very fast paced, a little more violent than Slow Boat, kind of a Jason Bourne with wings.

What music do you listen to when you write?

• • I love the Pandora music service. It allows you to make your own radio stations around certain songs or styles of music. I have about fifteen different stations that range from Satie and chanting monks to Whitsnake. The strength of the vibrations rattling the window panes depends on my mood or the scene I’m writing. I also like listening to John Powell or Hans Zimmer type music and visualizing my writing transformed into movies. Fun stuff.

Tell us about the Guardian Angel to whom you've dedicated you book.

• • Well, we all have a guardian angel. Mine just happens to be my wife. Cat’s and their nine lives have nothing on me.

Vernon Baker 

Find out more about Vernon Baker and Slow Boat to Purgatory HERE
and Vernon Baker, Dreams and Beaujolais

Slow Boat to Purgatory is available in print or digital format at:

Amazon

Barnes and Noble

Smashwords

The Graves

                     

Eleanor looked to Rob, who shrugged, and she turned south.

                      She slowed the small boat as they neared the jagged ledges. The

                      waves churned, tugging the craft to a smashed and splintered

                      end, but Eleanor held the whaler steady as she circled the treacherous

                      cropping. Her white knuckles clenched the tiller handle’s

                      twist grip against the pull—or maybe the stories of The Graves

                      were getting to her. Eleanor wanted to leave this place. She was

                      relieved to see no sign of life. Nothing stirred. Not even seabirds

                      lingered in the forsaken spot.

The Keeper and the Alabaster Chalice   (Kindle)
    The Keeper and the Alabaster Chalice    (Nook)
The Keeper and the Alabaster Chalice     (iTunes)

Midsummer's Eve Giveway ...

.. has ended. Thank you everyone for participating. I will announce the winner shortly!

And ... our 19th entrant (June 21 at 9:22:21), Raelena, is the lucky winner!

Again, thank you all for participating!

UNATTENDEaD

Bodies don't bother Dell, but some of the people who made them that way really try her patience. Dell, and her best friend Miles, who hates bodies, solve the mystery surrounding a suspicious UNATTENDEaD death.

Kurt Vonnegut - The Shapes of Stories

I rarely post media. I thought this was delightful.

Kurt Vonnegut on the Shapes of Stories

www.youtube.com

Short lecture by Kurt Vonnegut.

The Splash into Summer giveaway has ended ...

Thank you to all participants! The Winner will be announced tomorrow! Again, thank you. That was fun!


***Congratulations to Charla! Thanks so much, one and all, for entering. I will be hosting another giveaway - the Midsummer's Eve Giveaway later in June. Please come back and enter again!

Chairman of the Abhorred V

"While the water's heating, let's talk mutual friends. Small world, isn't it?" The stranger sat on the edge of the motel room's other bed. He took a sip of Mick's scotch and looked at the pint. "Wish you'd gotten a bigger bottle. This is good stuff. Where was I? Ah, yes. The Abrams. An employee of yours, wasn't he? Neighbor of mine. Cute little house over on Trim Street."

Mick's eyes bulged. If duct tape hadn't covered his mouth his jaw might have dropped.

"Nice couple, the Abrams. Sorry to hear about Joe's cancer, right after retiring, and all. And then that burst pipe! On top of everything. Marge said she lost all her family photos."

Mick shook his head, which was an accomplishment as it was tethered to his ankles from behind.

"And then, his pension. You can't foresee these things, though, can you? Not in an unstable economy. Fees just eat things right up." The stranger stood and walked to the hot plate. He stuck a finger in, testing the temperature, and wiped it on his pants. "Not quite hot enough," he said, and went on, "Good thing they had you in their time of need. Yessiree. The flowers were lovely."

A knock sounded at the door. The stranger went to it and squinted through the hole. He turned to Mick. "Oops, we forgot you were meeting someone, didn't we? Not a peep, now," he warned. He cracked the door, and said something Mick couldn't understand. Someone giggled, and the stranger closed the door, smiling.

"She thinks you've switched teams. Offered to join us but I explained you don't like to share." He gave Mick a ribald wink. "Bet the Epi-lady's charged. Let's talk about Joe Abram's chemotherapy and hair loss while we fire that baby up." The Epi-lady hummed to life. He gave Mick a once-over, and chose a particularly thick patch of chest hair.

"This is the Legend IV. The latest technology in epilators. Two speeds and forty individual tweezing discs. Only the best for you, Mick. You can't find these babies just anywhere - they're flying off the shelves!" When Epi-lady bit in, it whined in high gear, muffling Mick's duct-tape sobs.





Chairman of the AbhorredChairman of the Abhorred II
Chairman of the Abhorred III
Chairman of the Abhorred IV

The Saprophyte

"I am a humanist, which means, in part, that I have tried to behave decently without expectations of rewards or punishments after I am dead."

Vonnegut~

     That's what the saprophyte she told herself (and others). It sounded intelligent. In a cheap, affected way.

     And it was absolutely true. She didn't expect any rewards after she was dead. She was going to enjoy them all while she was alive, thank you very much.

     So she kept her eyes open for the next sucker, and this one fell at her feet like a plump, dumb pigeon. Sick, lonely, and rich. An old whiny wife, and no children. He'd wandered into her bar, dyed hair and cheap gold chains jingling like the proverbial dinner bell. It hadn't been hard convincing him he needed an administrative assistant - one who could meet all of his needs. She was familiar with excel and could tie a cherry stem in a knot with her tongue.

      She scrunched her face in the mirror, this way and that, assessing the need for botox. Probably not. She could more easily remove his glasses, first, with an oh-so-seductive trailing of her press-on nails down his cheek. He'd be eating out of the palm of her hand. She patted her hair extensions, confident of her skills. It would be over so quick it wasn't worth removing his socks.

     He'd be in a generous mood and take her out for lunch, after. It was a good arrangement for them both. He'd celebrate being able to get it up and she'd get the taste out of her mouth. Sometimes he'd invite one of his business associates to join them. That was fine. Gave her a chance to plan ahead. Who knew how long he'd last? Shame he was sick, but a girl had to eat.

Tweet This, Baby!

Hoard's Dairyman (@HoardsDairyman) is now following your tweets (@pwpendleton) on Twitter.

There almost aren't words to convey how cool I think that is. I've been reading Hoard's Dairyman since ... since before I could read. I found hours of entertainment in those pages. Chicago cheese markets intrigued as only a child can imagine a bazaar of gaily-tented stalls and people haggling over exotic foods. Yeah, I know, but it was wonderful imagery.

But unlike the reality of cheese markets, the glossy cover has stayed true. Those beautiful letters are still framed with bold red trim, and I smell my Grandfather's wintergreen lifesavers when I see an issue. I hear chains rattling in the barn, and I remember running down the path to find him.

When I was just a little bit older and had my own heifers I had my very own subscription. It was the first periodical to come, just for me, and I wore the hinges out on the mailbox checking for it.

Thirty years later Hoard's is following me on Twitter, and it's cracking me up. In all the right ways.

Playing with Cover Ideas

Barn Magic

   
      All sorts of things have a power which is awe-inspiring in its strength and magical in the mystery of its fount. The surge of the sea, new spring growth on brittle gray branches, the winds of a storm, or a crackling fire - all evince life's energy. The complexity and mystique of its endurance comforts, reassures, and humbles.

     I find it in a barn. Every corner thrums with vitality. Comforting sounds of feet shuffling, chains rattling, water dripping from muzzles, the munching of grain, even the scurry of little gray feet dodging large hooves for a dropped oat morsel. The scents of pine shavings, fresh hay, and the animals themselves, both invigorate but soothe the psyche. Little else brings the contentment one finds closing the barn doors on a cold winter night, knowing all are fed and content, sheltered and safe.

     Even the old, empty barn has a life force. Faded, it clings gently to the ghosts of past occupants. Spiders hang in corners, bits of dust dance in shafts of sunlight, smells linger in spite of being stale. Wood creaks, and rusted hardware eager to be worked thirsts for a bit of oil and a strong hand. Defying the silence, swallows swoop and chatter.

     I slowly close the old heavy doors, remembering and a bit wistful, but also at peace. All is still content here.

Genetic Tendencies

We like witches in our family. I guess. They keep popping up in family stories. I think my mother had a lot to do with it. Well-behaved women, history, and all that.  She had a soft spot for witches.
She did a great witch's cackle and was often called upon to do it. I also remember a skirt she had when I was very little that was long and flowing and had moons on it. I called it her witch skirt. It was dressy and elegant, not the least bit costume-ish, but the moons reminded me of my favorite book at that age, The Witch of Hissing Hill. The name stuck. My mother liked it (but she’d also bought the book).

Whenever Marie Laveau played on the radio, someone always ran and turned it up.
Hazel?  The witch on Bugs Bunny with the spinning bobby pins?  We thought she rocked.

Our family’s sailboat was named the Water Witch. An unrelated story behind the name, but there's that word again.

So years later, the angel atop my mother's Christmas tree was fair game. It was a corn husk angel, and old, so her skirts were dry and curled...windblown? Perhaps. She's holding a trumpet, but it’s kind of droopy now, and one could conceivably mistake it for a wand if one looked quickly. If one was two and had a cool Granny.

My daughter was two, and had a cool Granny. She also lisped (she's thirteen now, and does not). We'd stopped at my mother's for a quick visit on our way home. Frances ran in, ahead of her sister, to see my mother's Christmas tree. She came charging back to the kitchen, eyes wide and delighted, to report to her sister, "A WITth. Granny has a WITth on her tree!"

My mother was tickled. With the idea, and with my daughter's delight. The shadowed sense of humor evident at such a young age (heart clutch) ... the legacy lives on.

444 Submission to 4 Corners Press

Four Corners Press is having a contest! 444 word submissions about dreams, and I continued with a post of another character...

No boundaries. Good thing.

Nuptials from Hell

Busy time of year. Deadlines, deadlines, deadlines.

Dead. Lines. Lost souls get backed up if you don't stay right on top of them. This one isn't happy about where they’re going. That one has unfinished business. blah blah blah. The whining gets to you. Now serving number 8,936,472,785. Next.

Days like this I need an assistant, but good help’s hard to find. Most applicants only see the position as a stepping-stone, and corporate sabotage is always a concern. Some would lift your best spells and curses, some are just using you to climb the corporate ladder (they don't know the back door is at the top), and some have aspirations of Disney. Not everyone is a Sabrina, but they don't want to hear the truth.

My left arm for a Renfield. Yeah, he had a few problems, needed occasional stroking, and fresh blood, but overall he was a loyal employee who was fulfilled by his career choice.

I digress - I was sitting in Reception. We all have to do so many volunteer hours a decade – licensure requirement- and it was my turn. I was sorting the new arrivals and it wasn’t going well. My quill had a leak and blotches of Eternal Ink were staining The Book—turning Hells into Hell-Os. There was no rhyme or reason in the queue of souls waiting. Up, down, the hangers-on ... and in came the Dream Dallier. I groaned.

The Dream Dallier is the After Life’s jester, the fool, and a nightmare to have around (literally). He’s a walking chicken/egg quandary. Have millennia of screwing around in people’s heads made him an odd duck, or, was he the obvious choice for the job because he was an odd duck? Hard to say. He’s a strange dude.

He sashayed into Reception, drunk as a skunk. Giggling and reeling, he raised a pint in greeting to the reception area at large. He had a Banshee by the hand, and she was just as drunk as he.

“Toatht! Toatht! I’ve taken me bride!” he slurred, and they both collapsed into giggles sending rice sprinkling across the cold marble floor.

Whoever’d showered the happy couple with fertility blessings needed their heads examined. What sort of offspring would bless this union? He was weird, and she was worse. Would a toddling Junior cavort through sleeping people’s heads, shrieking? At least the Dallier was kinda cute, but the Banshee was a fright. All gray and wavy, and it wasn’t just ’cause she was drunk.
            I looked around Reception for a security guard. None to be seen, they were likely hiding in the break room watching this from the safety of the monitors. Cowards.

(to be continued)

My Hero

   

     A man among men, he's a champion for the downtrodden and overwhelmed. He rides alone, few brave enough to join him on his quest.

     His arrival heralds salvation from misery and despair. He swings from his mount, accepting his duty with somber humility.  A gentle smile reassures all will be righted, and the sufferers will be delivered from the evil oppression.  Hope warms my frozen heart.

     Bravely he battles an enemy which has grown to formidable proportions. Time stands still in this ageless battle of good versus evil, but he prevails.

     My soul rejoices and hope springs anew.

     He casts a jaunty salute to the adoring crowd and swings back onto his perch. No rest for the weary--another tired soul awaits him, but the world is a better place. My garbage is gone.

The Keeper and the Alabaster Chalice Trailer

The Keeper and the Alabaster Chalice   (Kindle)
    The Keeper and the Alabaster Chalice    (Nook)
The Keeper and the Alabaster Chalice     (iTunes)

Book II of The Black Ledge Series

Gustatus Similis Pullus receives ....

The Creative Blog Award !!

Awarded by none other than Deirdra Eden-Coppel !


"I love your site and as I browsed your blog I decided to award you the Creative Blog Award." D.E.-C.



Deirdra is a fresh new author with a strong voice and a passion for creative marketing in a changing literary world. She works full time as a professional writer and illustrator. In 2009 she began creating animation for e-books.

Deirdra has spent the last decade captivating audiences of all ages with her novels and fairy tales. Her specialty is fantastic fiction that delves into documented historical phenomenon and natural disasters of biblical proportions. Her novels entice indulgence of the fine line between fact and fantasy.

Her goal in writing is to saturate her books with intrigue, mystery, romance and plot twists that will keep her readers in suspense. She wants to see fingerprints on the front and back covers where readers have gripped the novel with white knuckles.

Aside from writing, Deirdra enjoys jousting in arenas, planning invasions, horseback riding through open meadows, swimming in the ocean, hiking up mountains, camping in cool shady woods, climbing trees barefoot and going on adventures.

Thank you, Deirdra! We're thrilled!

Cataclysmic

Was the cat mean because he lived with the Melton kids or were the Melton kids mean because they lived with the cat?

Hard to say. The good news is there was only one cat. The bad news was there were three Meltons. 

Said something. 

About the cat.

The Melton kids were rotten. Mrs. Melton worked a second shift because the factory was more peaceful than home. Teachers had been known to choose early retirement when they saw the name on their September roster. The cops drew straws when they were called to the Meltons' street.

Joey Melton had a way with snakes, and he thought teachers' desk drawers were a great place to keep them. Stevie Melton was a thief and an accomplished pickpocket. Marvin Melton liked blowing things up. All three liked tormenting the neighborhood kids, especially the littler ones, because the Meltons were lazy, too.

The cat's name was Smokey, but no one called him that. No one ever called him anyway, but after one of Marvin Melton's duct tape bombs lit his tail on fire with flying, flaming adhesive the name didn't seem like the best choice. Even to the Meltons.

to be continued


Catastrophic
The Trappings of Christmas

Have You Hugged Your Butter Knife Today?

We all know the wheel changed history, but I'm pretty sure there wouldn't have been a wheel without a butter knife. Or butter flint. Or whatever.

The butter knife is an unsung hero, and it gets the shaft. There isn't an inventor or tinkerer, or otherwise noteworthy person, who did not have an intimate relationship with their butter knife.

I know Ben Franklin embraced his butter knife. Hedy Lamarr used one developing a "Secret Communications System" to help combat the Nazis in World War II, and she looked good doing it, too.

I'm no Ben Franklin, or Hedy Lamarr (alas), but I recognize greatness when I see it, and the butter knife is, far and away, the most versatile tool in one's arsenal. And, as any person who regularly uses tools knows, findability is key. It's never lost because you have seven more!

I've screwed screws. Pried paint can lids. Fished toast from the toaster(tip - unplug the toaster). Removed coins and caps from the vacuum nozzle. Spackled putty. Cleaned spark plugs. Lifted flat things with a fine seam. Spliced wire. Mixed accelerants. Tested cakes. Dug dandelions. Weeded stone paths. Fixed glasses. Banged things. Propped things. Spread things. Stirred things. Shaved things. Eaten things.

Rounded end, pointed tip? Sculpted handle or pistol grip? Vive la Butter Knife!

Chairman of the Abhorred IV

Wild-eyed wasn't a flattering look on Mick. He was trussed like a turkey, and duct tape covered his mouth.

The stranger stood back, studying him. "You know, Mick? I'm worried about you. You have that mottled look. Any history of hypertension in your family?"

Mick struggled and protested but only garbles got past the duct tape.

"You really should take more care. Treat yourself better. Body, temple, and all that. No matter. I think I have just the solution. A day of beauty!" The intruder raised Mick's own pint of Scotch in salute, and took another haul.

Mick flailed, shaking his head. "UhNNph."

The stranger stroked his scraggly beard. "How we feel on the inside is so important. Don't you agree? Difficult with a rotted soul, I know, but I'm nothing if not optimistic! Set small goals! We'll set aside all the people you've screwed, women you've exploited, dollars you've stolen, lies you've told - we'll set that all aside. For a minute." He removed a pan from his satchel, and filled it with water at the vanity. He plugged in the hot plate, and then then turned back to Mick. "Let's get these restrictive clothes off you."

Mick shook his head, frantically, eyes bulging.

"Don't be silly! One can't fully experience hot stone massage with clothes on ..."



Chairman of the AbhorredChairman of the Abhorred II
Chairman of the Abhorred III
Chairman of the Abhorred V

Tragic Magic III

Nope. Definitely not right. The concoction in the pitted cauldron should have turned a clear blue. And no lumps.

Harriet skimmed the list of ingredients with her finger. Yep, yep, yep, all there. She reread she directions, yep, yep ... how had she missed stick of juniper in the fire?

She grabbed one and threw it into the flames, saying a silent prayer to Hecate and anyone else who might be listening.

The bunny twitched an ear, catching her attention. He pointed toward the door, and through the glass she saw an elderly man, hand up, about to knock. He was short, his round face only showing in the lower pane, a houndstooth derby in the middle one. He smiled and dropped his hand when he realized she saw him.

She opened the door just enough to stick her head out, but he pushed it right open and stepped inside with a wide smile. "Good day to you. I wonder if I might have a few moments of your time." He looked around her kitchen, his smile growing. "Just in time, I see. Excellent."

"I'm afraid now's not a good time, Mr. ..."

"Pithwick. Cecil B. Pithwick, at your service." He bowed, sweeping the derby off his head.

"Mr. Pillwick. I'm sorry, but now's not the best time-"

He sniffed. "Pithwick. Forgot the juniper branch, didn't you? Happens to the best of us," he said, shaking his head.

He walked to the cauldron, patting the bunny's head as he passed, and peered in. "Oh, fear not. This is salvageable. A bit of salt will do the trick." He chuckled, and confided, "works with stew, to."  He reached into his vest pocket and sprinkled a pinch of something in. The cauldron belched blue smoke. "There. Right as rain."

Harriet's eyebrow went up and she frowned. "How did you-"

He dismissed her question with a wave. "Now. As I was saying. Just a few moments and I'll be on my way."

"If you're selling-"

He laughed, genuinely amused. "Selling! Good heavens, no. I'm from the Council of Enchanted Creatures," he paused, and looked at Harriet's bunny. "And our radar went off when you conjured ..." his voice trailed off.

"Bun Bun," Harriet supplied.

"Yes, Bun Bun." His eyebrow went up, but he continued, "the Council has need of Bun Bun's services." He paused and looked around the worn kitchen, before continuing, "you will, of course, be compensated for your efforts. Both of you."

At Harriet's confused look, Pillwick exclaimed, "Why, you have no idea, do you! Your Bun Bun, is a Cuniculus Afflatus. One of the rarest of all enchanted creatures, channeling divine knowledge. He is the proverbial Lucky Rabbit, and still has all four feet! We thought we'd have to wait years to find one, and POOF, you conjured him, just like that!"

Harriet looked at the bunny. He shrugged his ears.

"What did you have in mind?" she asked.



Tragic Magic
Tragic Magic II

Beltie Cow, Beltie Cow Turn Around!

Unique Training Techniques for Heifers

Beltie Cow Beltie Cow
Turn Around
Beltie Cow Beltie Cow
Touch the Ground

Beltie Cow Beltie Cow
Run away
Beltie Cow Beltie Cow
Enjoy your hay

She looked annoyed, and recited in a flat voice. ..

Brownie, Brownie

Quick, quick, quick

I tend your home

With my broomstick

See me, catch me

I am yours

Until another

Sees me,

Of course

The Alabaster Chalice

Book II of
The Black Ledge Series

“What is the Alabaster Chalice?” Rob asked.

“A headache.” The Keeper let out a long sigh and turned to the kids. “The Alabaster Chalice is an artifact with a tangled history. A Dwarven artifact, one of the four elementals. It’s a large vessel, carved, obviously, from Alabaster. Beautiful, and ancient.”

“No. It’s cursed, and no good can come of it. Get it out of my waters,” she said.

The Keeper and the Alabaster Chalice   (Kindle)
    The Keeper and the Alabaster Chalice    (Nook)
The Keeper and the Alabaster Chalice     (iTunes)

Book II 
of

The Black Ledge Series.  

Cut, but not bleeding

Did not make the latest cut of the Amazon Contest, but the two reviews were helpful, and appreciated. Even the less favorable review was complimentary:

Very good descriptions. From the beginning scene with the violence (which, admittedly, I didn't love, but it was very vivid) to the descriptions of the house, the author does a great job setting his/her scenes and making them come alive in the reader's mind.

Thank you, Vine Reviewers.

Amazon Breakthrough Novel Award Reviews

ABNA Expert Reviewer

What is the strongest aspect of this excerpt?

The best aspect of this story was the author's ability to create a nice sibling dynamic with the Driscoll children. Eleanor, Jack, Rob and Flora were all easy to relate to and really fun to read about.

I liked the set-up to the story too. You could practically feel the excitement as the kids explored their new mansion.

I loved that the author gave EACH character a bit of personality. Even the parents, who barely have any "page time" in the story are fleshed out. The father is a research scientist who has discovered a new anti-viral drug that will apparently change the course of medicine and has therefore given the family a boat load of money to afford their new home. The mother is caring and has created the perfect environment for her kids to live in by transforming the once cold and dreary home into a comfy, cozy place to live.

The kids are all unique and individual. Rob, the eldest, is kind and nurturing. He leads his siblings with ease. Jack is whimsical and adventurous. Flora is bursting with eight-year old exuberance and our (seemingly) main character Eleanor is sarcastic and witty. I liked all of the people in this story.

I found myself wanting to continue on with the story because of the fast-paced prose and the loveable characters.

What aspect needs the most work?

I loved this entry and couldn't really find anything wrong with it. I think the author could have taken his/her time with getting the kids to the cave that they discover the carved riddle in. It seemed a LITTLE rushed. One second we are on a beach collecting crabs, the next we are in a cave reading an ancient riddle on an irridescent wall? It felt a bit too fast for me. But, it still worked.

What is your overall opinion of this excerpt?

I really enjoyed this entry. It was one of my favorites of the YA selections I have read. The pacing was perfect for a young person. Kids will relish every second of this. The characters are diverse and easy to like. The kids weren't bratty or annoying in any way, which was a relief. It seems like most of the characters in YA novels these days are either too whiney or too exhausting to care about.

All four of the Driscoll children are well mannered and seem to really enjoy eachother's company, which is rare with siblings in novels. I liked that they had a unity about them.

I also loved the fantasy element that we are introduced to in the beginning of the story. A dwarf being killed by some sort of monster?! What was the mysterious object he released in his final moments of life?

Also, who did the voice in the cave that spoke to the children belong to? I was eager to find out!

I really loved this YA entry! Very fast, easy and fun read. Kids will love this one.