“For months Joan would replay this moment, trying to decipher the look on her husband’s face. Was it guilt? Confusion? Indignation? Stoicism? Acting? But nothing, not even a revolving camera of omniscience, a floating momentary opportunity to narrate, would allow anyone to truly understand the truth about George. He became a hard statue, an obstacle, a symbol. // The father and the husband, from that moment, had been transformed.”
“Outside, the leaves appeared to have reddened overnight, going mad alongside her.”
There’s been a hype surrounding this book since it hit shelves in August of 2016 and I’m glad to report that it was able to live up to the deserved acclaim. Strong writing, uniquely real and wonderfully flawed characters and a story that’s both controversial and timely enough to drag even the most hesitant reader in makes for an addictive read.
Zoe Whittall’s, The Best Kind of People explores the complexity and complications surrounding the culture of rape and what family means while questioning ultimately what makes a person ‘good.’
Continue reading *Review* The Best Kind Of People by Zoe Whittall
I’m an infant in the world of publications and story-telling. Young in more ways than one, really. Still small in the world of adulthood and smaller still in that of writers. In just over a year now, I’ve uprooted, reevaluated, reset and reorganized everything – unfortunately for me, in that order.
Looking back, I’m sure that those first few months were direct bullet-points from a ‘what-not-to-do’ list – A verbatim screw up impending foreshadowed from every lifestyle post in existence. So for the sake of all those itching to dive without looking as I did, or even just for the sake of my own reminiscing, here’s the reality of my
poorly not planned foray into the world of writing and how you can hopefully bypass my blunders.
The Reality of Uprooting
I’d taken a step that many would applaud, balk at and ultimately praise me as being bold to my face while secretly, and realistically set bets as to when this choice would slap me silly.
I’d quit a job that demanded sixty hours of my life per week so I could pursue writing, but that job had also cushioned that same life financially. With only this vague desire to write still damp with the remnants of a recent dip into the waters of vet school, and nothing but a laptop and a story, I had torn from a system that was definite and comfortable. Peeling away from that job was both liberating and terrifying. The step I had missed here was a hefty one, though. Continue reading My Year Of Writing: A Reality Check