The old saying of “Misery loves company,” fits what I’m hearing from my writing buddies these days. 

The title may be inaccurate by this time, but I recommend reading The Great Influenza: The Story of the Deadliest Pandemic in History by John M. Barry.

I have been thinking back to see if I could remember the first time I knew we had a broken system. I must have been about four years old. 

Part of Casey’s trouble appears from the beginning of Lily King’s novel, Writers and Lovers, with a broken romantic relationship and her mother’s death. 

Renowned author Laurie Halse Anderson brought her audience to laughter with her comment, “You’re gonna die!” 

If you are looking for a book that will do nothing but entertain you, The Jane Austen Society by Natalie Jenner will fill the bill. 

I first met Shannan in happier times, relishing our roles as volunteers at the Kaigler Book Festival. 

People who heard his presentations and met him at the Kaigler Book Festival concluded that prolific artist illustrator Wendell Minor never sleeps. That would explain the three books I describe here that came out so close together, two brand new and one a reissue of an old favorite.

I am partial to the metaphor of this pandemic that says we are all in the same storm, but not in the same boat. 

Being a member of the Degrummond Book Group often takes me out of my comfort zone (also sometimes known as a rut). The pick for this month was The Golden Compass by Philip Pullman.

Today we return to the ditch we visited last week with several suggestions from my readers about what to call it. The one that sounds the most like what I might have called it back in the days of my life where its treasure first appeared was “crick.” 

Lexington Willow is not her real name, but nobody knows what her real name is. The school kids taunt her by calling her “Elephant Girl,” but that is not who she is either. 

For me, one the attractions of our new home after we moved out into the country has been the little stream running between the two houses on our “compound.” 

To tell the truth, I debated with myself about whether this was the time for a review of a book like this.

I could have answered the editor’s question about the lilies in my story for Cricket Magazine without consulting an expert, but I knew he wanted an authority. 

A rather weird phenomenon has shown up in this Coronavirus atmosphere. In conversations with book-loving friends, several have mentioned something I had noticed in myself. 

You won’t find the event on any holiday-marking calendar you pick up, but since my blogging day falls on May 1, I feel it’s necessary to mark an event from this day in 1937’s history.

In a time long ago and a place fairly far away, I was a senior in high school. I begin in this manner in accordance with warnings about giving away dates and places that will help hackers steal your identity. 

Emily Blejwas jumps right into the title of her book, Like Nothing Amazing Ever Happened, with a TPing, (which seems an important thing to read about right now!) 

As far as I can tell, Peanut thinks he’s the appointed guard for the Butler-Taylor Spread. From his perch in the tree, he can spot an invader to our eight acres with those big chartreuse eyes.