Posted by Silke on May 7, 2009 in
Writing We all have them.
The Keepers.
The books we will read again and again, the ones we guard with our lives, will never lend out and the ones we want to take to the grave with us.
But how to define a keeper?
What makes a book a keeper?
Is it the story? The characters? The writing style?
Sometimes one of them, sometimes all of them.
Personally, I fall in love with heroes. I’m sure most of us do. Sometimes I love the spunky heroine. Sometimes the storyline is one that grabs me and doesn’t let go.
It’s personal taste.
I have unlikely keepers, too.
Fried Green Tomatoes at the Whistlestop Cafe, by Fannie Flagg, is one of my keepers.
So is my collection of poems by Edgar Allan Poe.
Pest Control, by Bill Fitzhugh, is one of those unlikely keepers. I absolutely adore that book, because it makes me laugh out loud.
Good Omens, by Terry Pratchett and Neil Gaiman, is one I can read over and over.
However, my romance keepers… change.
They change, because I evolve, just like the genre evolves.
I used to gobble up anything by Johanna Lindsay, Kathleen E. Woodiwiss and Jude Deveraux. I swore they were all keepers.
My entire collection is boxed up and in the loft. I haven’t read one in years.
Actually, that’s not true.
I tried to read one. I got as far as a quarter of the book and put it down, wondering how I could ever have deemed it a keeper. The writing seemed stale. The storyline unbelievable and contrived. The heroine… let’s not go there. The hero was an overbearing rapist.
We change. Our tastes change.
Unfortunately, most of our keepers don’t stand the test of time and can’t cope with the change. (Some do, though.)
I remember Shanna (Kathleen E. Woodiwiss) with absolute fondness, because it was the first romance I read. I’ve never read the English version. (I read it in German.)
I have other Woodiwiss books in English, and I even peeked into one recently. I put it away, because… well… the writing was just… horrible. The language, the style… God. I just couldn’t bear it.
Don’t get me wrong. I still love those books. I have fond memories of the characters and the story. I just don’t want to read it again, because it would taint that memory.
I doubt I’m the only one who feels this way.
So what are the keepers you can’t bear to read again, but won’t let go of anyway?
Do you keep them out, or do you box them up?
Do you try to read them again?
Do you get put off, because the style that seemed so great when you first read it, is just not what you would read now?
I know I do.
And I keep the books anyway, would never part with them.
To me, they are like old friends you haven’t seen in a long time. But now you can see all their irritating habits, and prefer to know them from a distance. 
Silke writes paranormal romance, and knows a thing or two about things going bump in the night. Although it is usually her, creeping to the kitchen at O' Dawn Thirty to score another cup of coffee.
She grew up in Germany, but her home of choice is in the UK, where she lives with her partner on the outskirts of London.
Her first book Smitten is now available from Decadent Publishing.
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Tags: Authors, Books, Favorites, Keepers, Romance
Posted by Bethanne Strasser on Dec 6, 2008 in
Writing ~Shake the Sugar Tree~
“I wouldn’t have recognized your mother here.” Thad picked up one of the loose photographs. Behind it was her most treasured possessions. If she could drag him bodily away, he might not see it.
She took the picture of her mother from his hand and turned away from the shelves to look at it, hoping he would turn away with her. “She’s lost a lot of weight. She smokes too much and drinks. She got sick right after this picture was taken.”
“You took care of her?” He stared at the picture on the shelf.
“Yes, of course.” She cleared her throat wishing she’d hidden that picture. “Wouldn’t you like to go down and get something to drink? Better yet, shouldn’t you go home?”
Ignoring her, he picked it up. Framed in cheap, dollar store plastic that she’d bought when she was fourteen, was a grainy picture of Thad and herself. A sunny, summer day when they’d gone fishing. He probably didn’t even remember her being there. The Mason boys and Jeannie[thad's sister], Bobby and his girlfriend had all marched down to the homestead creek.
Her second summer in Coopersville she’d been eleven. Big-eyed and mesmerized by the boy next door. Unfortunately, he hadn’t been so much a boy, but a grown man. In this one instant though, he’d leaned against the fence where she sat and asked her if she was having fun. Jeannie had called out and as one they’d both looked up with huge grins on their faces from laughing about how Thomas had fallen in the creek.
“This is great. I can’t believe you have it.”
She shrugged. She’d tossed aside her childhood crush, but hadn’t had the heart to get rid of it. Even when she’d decided to hate him, she hadn’t been typical. No burning session after a night of beer with her girlfriends, no Edward Scissorhands to mutilate it. “Seemed a shame to throw it away.”
Seriously, could he ignore her request to go downstairs any more blatantly?
He set it gently back on the shelf. “What are you so nervous about?”
“I’m not nervous.” Her house shoes were under the bed. She slipped them on. “It’s weird having you in my bedroom.”
He started wandering again and leaned onto the bed with his palms flat against the quilt. “Nice. Firm, yet soft.”
She lifted a brow.
Turning, he sat then bounced a couple of times. “Good bounce.”
She pressed her lips together to stifle a laugh. “Are you finished?”
“Wait,” Thad said pointing his finger. He leaned back against her pillows and headboard. “Good support. Comfy.”
“Thank—”
“So, who is this Roarke to you?” He patted the bed for her to come and sit beside him.
She snorted with a shake of her head. “You want to talk about my past lovers?” Heat rose on her neck at the implication. God. She had to get out of here. “Roarke wasn’t a lover. He was a good friend. His wife was in my nursing class. I babysat for them occasionally and he gave me guitar lessons.” She huffed. “Why am I explaining this to you? I’m going downstairs now.”
Thad watched her clear the doorway, heard her feet on the stairs before he blew out the huge breath he’d been holding. Holy moly, he was in serious trouble. “Get a grip.”
copyright Bethanne Strasser, 2008
Mother of FIVE smarty-pants and married to her Love for twelve years, Bethanne spends her time writing stories that always--without a doubt--end happy.
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Tags: Fiction, Romance, Saturday Snippets
