I never realized how much I was looking for an indomitable heroine until I met the women who populate Sarah J. Maas’s books. And I never understood how much it would mean to me that an indomitable heroine be flawed—that is, like a normal person who makes mistakes and not a perfect person who becomes a perfect sacrifice—until I encountered Aelin in Maas’s Throne of Glass series.
Because it actually means something that the same person who could protect others and make tough decisions, who could make sacrifices for the good of others and save the world, could also be a person whose personality is sometimes abrasive, and who often does cringe-worthy and occasionally awful things, AND does both those good and bad (mostly good) things as a woman.
The truth is that for a long time I admired those perfect heroic characters, and a lot of times in my reading experience, those perfect heroic characters were men. Another truth is that for a long time, I felt uncomfortable reading about flawed women, because I wasn’t always (and to some degree, still am not) entirely comfortable with some of my own flaws. And another truth on top of that one: I’m trying to be aware of my own gender biases, the ones that whisper softly that women should be polite and nurturing and selfless, humble and kind, and that flare up when I see women who don’t seem to be embodying those values.
I am a work in progress.
As much as I love being a mom, treasure it, adore it, there’s also quite a bit of guilt and self-recrimination tossed into the mix. I frequently compare my own actions and thoughts to some idealized notion of mommyhood that I feel I’ve seen exhibited by other moms in my life, or moms in books or movies. I had a rough time with the weight of that guilt for a while, and it was hard, and sometimes still is, to walk away from it. It’s long-lasting, guilt, and once you feel it, it’s difficult to forget about.
That’s not to mention the day-to-day inadequacy I sometimes feel, the kind that’s not really related to being a mom, but maybe to being a woman. Did I really say that? Why don’t I understand that? Why are my ankles so thick? Why am I not more like _____?
But books, and characters like Aelin, help.
Some people like to pretend that books don’t matter, that words are meaningless. But like someone else once noted—books can make us “brave” (I’m so sorry that I can’t remember who said this. I think I saw it on Twitter.) Words have power, and a series of words that are masterfully strung together can make us admire and love and dislike and hate characters; those strung together words can not only intrigue us, they can invest us in characters’s decisions, question them. They can make us wonder what we would do in the respective character’s situation. And if a time comes necessary, as that one unremembered source above suggested, the responses we’ve had to books and characters and specific actions we’ve read about can help us see the right thing, and give us the motivation to do it.
Sarah J. Maas writes beautifully, terrifically. On a basic literary level, you’re missing out on quite a lot if you haven’t read her. But for me, the biggest part of her appeal comes from the fact that she writes flawed women and I am a flawed woman.
I’ve done good things and I’ve done some bad and I can be funny and annoying and smart and not-very-smart and kind and rude and sometimes I can hit a note like Adele(ish) and sometimes I glance around and make sure no one heard me sing, it's so bad, and it’s all okay, because I’m human and I'm trying. It can be tempting to dwell on the areas where we’ve failed or might fail. But I want to believe—I do believe—that mistakes and heroism (on a small or big level) are not incompatible; that identifying as a woman and being a hero are not incompatible. That flawed women are capable of saving the world and doing it with a smirk--or smile, or frown, whatevs, you be you--on their faces.
I think that you’re either a vampire person, or you’re not. There doesn’t seem to be a lot of gray area there, in my experience. I’ve been a vampire person since I first saw Buffy the Vampire Slayer and realized that it was possible to save a gymnasium full of people in an impossibly huge dress and win the love of a 90s era Luke Perry. I’ve covered a lot of vampire ground since then and I’m happy to report that we have a new smart, fierce vampire story to add to the conversation: Chloe Neill’s Wild Hunger, the first book in her Heirs of Chicagoland series—a spin-off of her wildly popular Chicagoland Vampires series.
In Wild Hunger, we get Elisa, vampire daughter of Ethan and Merit, and Connor, shifter son of Gabriel and Tonya. They kinda sorta can’t stand each other at the beginning. Elisa and Connor have grown up teasing, taunting, and fighting each other, but Elisa’s return from a long sojourn in Paris gives them opportunity to get to know each other again.
What they find is surprising.
But they don’t have a lot of time to dwell on that, because Connor is heading to Alaska to re-commune with the Earth and his Pack, and Elisa is headed back to Paris, but first they have to prove that Riley, one of their friends and a member of Connor’s Pack, didn’t murder a vampire at a party celebrating the beginning of European vampire peace talks.
Complicating everything is the monster living inside Elisa.
Elisa’s the only existing offspring of vampires, and so it’s easier to hide her little problem: there’s also huge magic inside her. It feels dangerous and deadly, and she tries to suppress it because she knows it’s related to a wicked sorceress and how her mother Merit became pregnant with her in the first place.
Only Connor has seen the monster inside Elisa that she tries to ignore. Will it bring them together or pull them apart?
Told in first person from Elisa’s perspective, Wild Hunger is deftly told—it’s vivid and gripping. I love a fierce heroine, and Elisa is strong and compassionate, not afraid to risk herself if it might help someone she cares about. It doesn’t hurt that she’s skilled with katanas and has a monster inside her. Elisa's relationship with Connor is pretty chaste and straightforward at this point, but I have my doubts that will last long, particularly since the tension in this world is so high already. Elisa is a vampire and Connor is a shifter, and though they are wildly attracted to one another, a lot of people don’t want those to mix. Add to that volatility fairies, and you’ve got a real powder keg situation.
Like in her other books that I’ve read, Neill offers us in Wild Hunger a thoroughly and thoughtfully created world. Though the stakes are always high—we’re talking world domination and peace on Earth, people—Neill doesn’t forego the personal either. Defeating enemies and preventing them from subjugating others to their terror-filled reigns is important, yes, but so are relationships and love.
When I left this book—regretfully—I was both satisfied with how the plot worked out and already looking forward to the next one. I have my suspicions about where it will all go, but since Neill is the author, I know I’ll also be surprised.
I received an ARC of this book from Netgalley but all opinions provided are my own.
Stephanie Garber’s Caraval is a dazzling fantasy romance that will leave you breathless, but at its heart it’s about sisters. What we do for family. What we do to protect those whom we’ve loved and fought with and adored since birth. What that responsibility for another living soul can do to you and for you.
Over the course of our lives together, my sister and I have switched bedrooms more times than I count, planned and participated in numerous talent shows in which we were the only talent (and mine was debatable), called one another names (we both a keen psychological instinct for hitting the weak spots), held and comforted the other, and hit one another with remotes (okay, that was just me. But she must have deserved it and afterwards she called me a “stupid ass” so we’re even).
The point is: sisters are unlike anything on this earth. On one hand, she is a potential threat to your current happiness with her long memory and access to old Glamour Shot photos, but on the other, she is a living record of how you got to now, and your life-long best friend made flesh. Some of your quirks might really annoy the other (hello!, my sister is chronically late and I’m chronically sensitive) but you. don’t. ever. mess. with. my. sister.
Garber captures this sisterly dynamic in Caraval with the Dragna sisters, both of whom are victims of their father’s abuse and long for escape. Scarlett has been attempting to protect her little sister Tella from their abusive father, the Governor of Trisda, since their mother disappeared. She believes that she’s finally found a permanent way to do it by marrying the Count, a man she’s never met before but who writes kind letters. Her sister sees their escape through Caraval, a magical competition orchestrated by a wizard named Legend. This year, the prize of Caraval is a wish.
Scarlett’s always been drawn to the promise of Caraval’s magic but she resists her sister’s pleas to go there, until the matter is taken out of her hands and then Tella is kidnapped. As a result, Scarlett must navigate through the brilliant, dangerously unpredictable world of Caraval, searching for her beloved sister. As Scarlett attempts to solve the clues, this is what she knows to be true: she must rescue her sister Tella from kidnapping, she must leave Caraval in time to marry the Count, and she must resist Julian, her unreliable guide in Caraval, who seems to have some magic of his own. All the while, Scarlett must remember that she must not “let your eyes or feelings trick you,” and that there are consequences to losing and winning.
Caraval is a book to enjoy in the moment, but it’s also a book to chew over. I find myself even now remembering certain parts of the book with the knowledge that I gained at the end, trying to put it all together and see the story from different points of view. And Scarlett is a character to admire: she pursues her sister through the terror and beauty of Caraval with ingenuity and aplomb.
If you’re looking for an inventive tour de force, an explosion of color and sound, look no further. Admit your ticket to Caraval at the door and unlike Scarlett, don’t worry about allowing yourself to be “swept away.”
Psssst! If you like Caraval, try: the sequels to the trilogy, including Legendary, book 2. Also, try The Hunger Games by Suzanne Collins and the movie Sing (hey, the stakes aren’t as big, but we’re still talking about competition here and what people want versus what they think they should do.) Maybe Erin Morgenstern’s The Night Circus—I read this years ago and think it’s time for a re-read.
I could make so many excuses about why it’s been so long since I’ve posted a book review but I’m a mature adult who prioritizes and takes responsibility for her actions.
Imagine a dark black line striking out the entirety of that sentence.
It turns out that I am going to offer my excuses and they’re two pretty big ones: my toddler, who learned how to crawl out of his crib in Autumn of 2017, thereby wrecking my life (I mean, asserting his independence in a totally normal and acceptable way—that’s what I’m supposed to say, right?), and my newborn, who has been a smiling cherub who only occasionally messes with my sleep but who still demands a lot of my time. Naturally.
Despite the lack of time that I’ve had for writing and LuLaRoeing, my childcare responsibilities have lended themselves well to reading. I’ve been reading so much lately and it’s been amazing. Amazing. *imagine me as a loveable winter-plump hermit tucked into a cozy nest of books, diapers, and breastfeeding pump parts.*
One of my favorite things about being a voracious reader is the thrill of being introduced to an incredible new writer. When that happens, I’m overwhelmed with hope and anticipation and greed—don’t worry, it’s very cute and not at all Gollum-like—at the thought of all of the future literary wonders that will come my way, now that I know where to find them. And that’s what happened to me a few weeks ago, when I discovered Sarah J. Maas.
[Editor’s note: This is where I stopped typing and got off the couch to pick up my crying baby. Will resume later.]
[Editor’s note: blog post resumed nearly three full days later.]
Since my discovery of Sarah J. Maas, I’ve read 8 books of hers, a fact which does not embarrass me in the slightest because once again, the books are amazing, and I’ve got a Goodreads goal, dammit. The aforementioned books encompass two different series, and the one that I’m writing about today starts with A Court of Thorns and Roses.
Feyre kills a wolf in order to feed her starving family.
[Editor’s note: toddler whines “mom” and pulls me away from computer. Blog post resumed roughly a week later. Ahhhhhh!]
Let’s start the summary again, shall we?
Feyre kills a wolf in order to feed her starving family. Shortly thereafter, a beast arrives at her home and informs her that she’s broken the treaty between humans and faeries, and she can either die or follow him to his faery home and live with him there until her death.
She chooses to live and what follows is incredible storytelling. The beast is actually a High Lord named Tamlin, and his people and those surrounding them are under the control and influence of an evil faerie named Amarantha. Don’t worry: huge things are going to happen between these characters; exciting things; terrifying things; beautiful things, but that’s all. that. I’m. going. to. say.
That’s all that I will say about this series, because I would be very sad if I ruined any of the magical plot for you and didn’t allow you to discover this on your own. But there are some pronouncements that I will make about this series.
That’s all that I can tell you about the series because I refuse to ruin the surprises. You’ll thank me later.
Psssst! If you like this book, check out: Elizabeth May's Falconer series and Maas's Throne of Glass series. You lucky dog, you.
Reading Katherine Arden’s The Bear and the Nightingale—a sumptuous wonderland of magic, faith, and terror set in medieval Northern Russia—was an engrossing experience. Arden’s world is powerfully realized, and reading it was a bit like staring into a snow-globe, and then being able to step in and out at will.
I first encountered this book several months ago. I really enjoyed reading it, but for some reason, I only made it 37% of the way through before abandoning it to other interests. But I knew that I wanted to come back, and this week I stepped away from my romance novel reading (the amount of recs I’ve gotten lately has been insane), and returned to the beginning of this jewel of a book.
When the book opens, Marina tells her husband that she’s pregnant, and though her husband is worried, she wants to have the baby because she knows that this baby will be just like her mother, who possessed magical abilities. As Marina tells her husband, “power is a birthright to the women of her bloodlines. Olga is your daughter more than mine, but this one…this one will be different.”
Marina dies in childbirth, and as she expected, her daughter Vasya can see things, talk to things, and do things, that others cannot. While Vasya’s family members and fellow villagers have faith in the chyerti, supernatural beings that protect their homes and families, they can’t see them or talk to them, as Vasya does. She protects both the chyerti and her fellow humans, often sacrificing her own comfort so that the old ways can continue. And as she learns as the book progresses, it’s desperately important that the chyerti stay strong, because something evil is awakening.
Pitched against this supernatural battle is the very real human drama of religion. Vasya knows that abandoning the chyerti will lead to the villagers’ doom, and yet her step-mother, who can see the same things that Vasya can, but who is terrified by them and finds comfort in her maniacal faith, and a new Priest, who feels elevated by the villagers’ love and fear, tell the villagers otherwise. As conditions in the village worsen and it becomes increasingly apparent that Vasya is different than they are, the villagers start to see Vasya as a threat.
When the major conflict comes, it's all on the table: the old faith and the new, the supernatural and the human, the dogmatic and the tolerant, and it’s moving and terrifying.
This is a rich, decadent, dark chocolate cake of a book, and Vasya is the heroine that we’ve been looking for.
Need to Know: Things We Lost in the Fire is creepy, sinister, and mesmerizing.
After reading Mariana Enriquez’s short story collection*, Things We Lost in the Fire, I’m a little scared to go to bed tonight.
The stories are macabre and grotesque, teeming with people, things, and phenomena that should not exist, but do. Set in Argentina and primarily featuring female narrators, the stories are linked together by common themes including, as others have noted, pervasive violence and destruction. But what I found even more fascinating is how the women in Enriquez's stories respond to the violence and destruction: whether they act in some way--and how those efforts do or do not pay off--, or whether they do nothing, which offers a kind of hollow safety.
One of my favorite stories in the collection is “End of Term,” a haunting story focusing on teenage girls, one of whom is seemingly mentally ill. The narrator is one of many at the school who observes Marcela pull out her own nails and later, cut herself on the face. Other incidents of Marcela’s self-harm follow, and the narrator finds herself first interested in a detached sort of way, and then, increasingly invested in finding out why Marcela harms herself. In this story, Enriquez plays with distinctions between madness and truth and the thin line between being a detached observer and someone who has become too dangerously involved.
Enriquez paints Buenos Aires and other cities within Argentina compellingly, if terrifyingly. She focuses little on the natural landscape except to indicate how it’s been affected by elements of the supernatural. Instead, her stories are primarily grounded in the places where people dwell: the “slums,” strange houses, police academies turned inns, and most frightening of all, the homes where the characters should be safest.
Sometimes relationships with others provide some type of bulwark against outside forces, but many times, the stories highlight how very alone these characters are.
Most of these stories provoked a visceral response from me: a clenched, tense stomach or a wince. But I kept reading, and that’s because Enriquez offers much to her readers. Concise prose, often with the air of the colloquial. Characters who are relatable in their uncertainty and their fear. And a sharp and unsettling exploration of how fragile the borders are between safety and danger.
*Translated by Megan McDowell.
I received a copy of this book from Blogging For Books, but all opinions expressed in this post are my own.
The Need to Know: An atmospheric, detailed mystery, Brunonia Barry’s The Fifth Petal is a satisfying, juicy book to sink into and enjoy.
At its heart, The Fifth Petal by Brunonia Barry is a murder mystery about who murdered “the Goddesses,” three beautiful young women who were killed in Salem, Massachusetts in 1989 while attempting to consecrate the spot where their female ancestors were executed for supposed witchcraft in 1692.
The answer to this murder mystery is particularly important to Callie Cahill, daughter of one of the Goddesses, who was present at that ill-fated ceremony and only avoided death thanks to “Auntie” Rose, who hid her away before returning to the murder site.
Unbeknownst to Callie, now thirty years old at The Fifth Petal’s opening, Rose is still alive and many of Salem’s residents hold Rose responsible for the Goddesses’ murders, even though there was no evidence that she was their murderer.
When Rose is believed to have committed a fourth murder, this time of a teenager who was threatening her, Callie immediately returns to Salem to clear Rose’s name and to uncover the truth about what happened to her mother and the other Goddesses. One challenge that Callie faces, among many, is that Rose is considered insane by many Salemites, and Rose maintains that a banshee was responsible for all four of the murders.
Though the rich plot of The Fifth Petal is somewhat difficult to summarize, Barry maneuvers the plot and characters deftly, and the book remains suspenseful rather than gratuitously complicated.
Barry’s rendering of Salem, Massachusetts, a city already compelling to many Americans familiar with the barest bits of its history, is smart and thorough, and she has rooted her plot within the occult and religious practices unique to Salem’s history. The ways in which Puritanism, Catholicism, and the occult clash and overlap with each other in The Fifth Petal enrich the reader’s understanding of the characters themselves: their motivations, their fears, and their desires.
I was invested in finding out the answers to the mystery throughout the book, and in true Jessica form, I guessed that several different people were responsible before reading the book's satisfying revelations.
The Fifth Petal is an engrossing, sexy read that is also dense and seemed well-researched.
Fun to read and smart. A great combination, in any book.
I received this book from Blogging for Books for this review; however, all opinions included here are my own.
For more info on Brunonia Barry: http://www.brunoniabarry.com/
I get really excited when I read a book and think, I have never read anything like this before. I had that thought many times as I read N. K. Jemisin’s The Fifth Season, the first in Jemisin’s The Broken Earth series. I was less invested in the characters themselves than I was in the book’s daring, unpredictable plot and the thoughtful, meticulous descriptions of the world that the characters inhabit.
When the book opens, the unnamed narrator tells us, “Let’s start with the end of the world, why don’t we? Get it over with and move on to more interesting things” (1). The narrator’s casual, even flippant tone, captured me from the beginning, as did his/her descriptions of the land that the characters live on: the Stillness. According to the narrator, “It moves a lot this land. Like an old man lying restlessly abed it heaves and sighs, puckers and farts, yawns and swallows” (2). Aren’t those two amazing sentences?
It turns out that it’s difficult to summarize the plot of a book like this when different timelines take place in various chapters of the book and the chapters don’t follow a chronological order. There are characters who appear, disappear, and re-appear, terms that characters use which are mostly explained only in the Appendix at the end (i.e. strongbacks, use-caste, Sanzed), and phenomenon that sometimes the characters don’t understand yet, so the reader doesn’t either.
But if I wanted to reduce this sprawling, magnificent plot to one thread, I would say that when the book opens, Essun’s husband, Jija, has killed one of their children and kidnapped another, all because of who they are. Essun’s efforts to retrieve her daughter and exact revenge for her murdered son, Uche, are complicated by the fact that something has set off a major earthquake in the North of the Stillness, an earthquake that will destroy the world and everyone in it “For the last time.”
Genre-wise, this book is a dystopian; coming of age; science fiction/fantasy; mystery; adventure epic. If you want to be more clued in to what’s happening from the beginning of the book, check out the Appendix, which offers definitions of many of the terms mentioned—and which I didn’t locate until I was several chapters in.
I loved how intricate and bold this book is and how diverse its characters are. It seemed to me to be a very inclusive dystopian novel (see other genres listed above), and I really appreciated that. The Fifth Season won the 2016 Hugo Award and received major props from many prestigious publications, and it deserves every one of them.
This book seems to me one that will provoke extreme reactions, and I can see some of my friends not enjoying it. But if you enjoy the genres that I detailed above—or just want to read something that takes huge risks—check this one out. I think you will be wowed.
This weekend I fell in love with Erika Johansen’s The Queen of the Tearling.
I went on a browsing expedition at McKay’s—a huge used bookstore in Knoxville—and stumbled across this book in the Fantasy section. The Queen of the Tearling had an attractive red cover, the words “National Bestseller” on it, and positive blurbs written by Lauren Oliver and Jezebel, so I thought that it was worth a shot.
This. Book. Is. So. Good.
The Queen of the Tearling is the first novel in a fantasy trilogy. In the book’s opening, members of the Queen’s Guard collect 19-year-old Kelsea Raleigh from her foster parents’ home because she must be crowned Queen of the Tearling. Kelsea has been primed for queenly responsibilities, but she has also been hidden and isolated her entire life, so she is not totally prepared for the world she is entering.
Once Kelsea leaves her childhood home, she is in danger, as two formidable enemies attempt to have her killed before she can officially accept power. Sadly for Kelsea, the attempts to have her killed continue after she is crowned. Sadly for her enemies, Kelsea is an exceptional queen and she’s definitely not an easy mark.
Throughout this book Kelsea learns how to forge a path using what she learned from her foster parents, what she has learned about her mother, and what she has learned about her own strength. She comes into her own, which is a considerable feat considering the number of attacks made against her, and how most, if not all, of the males in the book underestimate her at one time or another.
Blurbs on the book frequently reference The Hunger Games, Game of Thrones, and Harry Potter. I would add another comparison, Naomi Novik’s Uprooted, which you might remember as the subject of my first blog post. Like Uprooted, The Queen of the Tearling features strong young womanhood, and suggests how these women not only defy the expectations of those around them but also learn to value themselves and what they are capable of. This book also contains supernatural and magical elements, which I loved, and the world that Johansen creates is both familiar and inventive. (Case in point: Kelsea references J. K. Rowling as an author of the past, but in the whole country of the Tearling, there are only two doctors. As Glamour notes in their blurb, “You’re in the twenty-fourth century, but also the Middle Ages? The implications made us see our world today—particularly technology and education—in a new light.”)
Unlike Uprooted, this book is part of a series, which I am deliriously happy about. There are still so many questions to be answered, and spoiler alert, I’ve already checked out the second book in the series from my library.
This is an adventurous, mesmerizing read and I loved every minute of it.
Perfect If You: want an inspiring read about how women are saving the day; are looking for a book to fill the void left when you finished the last Hunger Games/Harry Potter/Uprooted book; want to sink into a good versus evil read, with lots of gray to contemplate, too.
Not Recommended if You: Hate any/all of the books recommended in the above category; are turned off by books which contain magic (who are you?!!); are really turned off by gore
Also Check Out: See recommendations in above heading. I’m also thinking Jessica Jones, the Neflix series. Fair warning, I’ve only seen 5-6 episodes of it, but both Jessica and Kelsea, of The Queen of the Tearling, feel the weight of responsibility and a power that others may not understand.
There is real joy in re-visiting a book that I read decade(s) earlier: it’s an experience of the familiar and treasured and the experience of the new, simultaneously. Ray Bradbury’s Fahrenheit 451 has been sitting on my shelf for a couple of years now, and yesterday I decided to read it and see what it could tell me as a 32-year old.
It turns out that it could tell me quite a lot.
From the first stunning line of the book—“It was a pleasure to burn”—to the last, Fahrenheit 451 is a powerful, stomach-churning read. Guy Montag is a fireman and his job, like that of his colleagues, is to burn books. But the “pleasure” that Montag takes in burning the pages is complicated and threatened by meeting Clarisse, a teenager who asks him questions which make him start to pay more attention to the life he is living. What made firemen start setting fires when before they apparently stopped them? How did he end up married to his wife? What can he do to change this society? How can he change from the person he is to a person who understands books and is changed by them?
Montag’s general dilemma is, I think, frustratingly familiar to a lot of people. Sometimes we see that we aren’t living the lives that we should—that perhaps in some ways we aren’t living at all—but it can be terribly difficult to understand how we can change when the familiar is safer.
Fahrenheit 451 is a fascinating exploration of what happens to a society when people decide that they no longer want to read books: that they would rather consume and in turn, be consumed. Originally published in 1953, the book is exceedingly relevant today, when we get a lot of “information” from sound bytes, headlines, and even fake news stories. We’re dealing with questions today like where do we get the “truth,” how we do reach people who believe the exact opposite that we do and who are equally convicted, and how do we protect “essential” liberties and respond when they are threatened?
I would have liked to have seen a more nuanced representation of women and other minorities in Fahrenheit 451, although I suppose that goes against part of Bradbury’s message here and in his Afterword (where he says “For it is a mad world and it will get madder if we allow the minorities, be they dwarf or giant, orangutan or dolphin,…to interfere with aesthetics.)
Still, I’m left wondering what role other people—besides white men—would play in the community which Montag escapes to. I guess that, as Bradbury says in his Afterword, he left that for other writers to explore.
Ray Bradbury’s Fahrenheit 451 is a slim, dense read that reminded me anew of the purposes that books serve. Of the power they (and their stories) have to anchor us, to fulfill us, and to challenge us. And I think it’s an important reminder to keep our eyes open; to remember the danger in closing our eyes to the things that frustrate, disturb, or anger us, and to refuse to disconnect from our communities and our society. What we value, matters. What we love, matters. What we tolerate and don’t tolerate, matters.
About the Author
When my toddler and infant sleep--or are otherwise engaged--I write, read, and eat lots of chocolate.