I’ve been hooked on Holly Black since I first read her Young Adult fantasy series in 2002. That’s when Tithe: A Modern Faerie Tale was published. She followed that up with Valiant in 2005 and completed the trilogy with Ironside in 2007. If you’ve never read these stories, I suggest you do.
Holly Black and her friend, Cassandra Clare are the Empresses of Urban Fantasy. Clare beta-reads Black’s manuscripts and, I assume, Black returns the favour. How cool is that?
After writing YA and middle grade stories for the past twenty years, Black is now venturing in the realm of adult books. This is her debut Adult fiction. I don’t really know the difference. In Book of Night the sex is not explicit, and there’s minimal profanity and violence only when warranted. It’s certainly nothing that would surprise teens and I’m sure they’ll be all over this book. Perhaps, it’s because her protagonist, Charlie Hall AKA The Charlatan, tends bar at Rapture and seems to be in her early twenties.
Black is a #1 New York Times best-selling author and Book of Night will illustrate why. Her concepts are original, her descriptions electrifying, her characters unique and relatable (even in their weirdness). I inhaled this book as if possessed. Here’s the blurb:
Charlie Hall has never found a lock she couldn’t pick, a book she couldn’t steal, or a bad decision she wouldn’t make.
She’s spent half her life working for gloamists, magicians who manipulate shadows to peer into locked rooms, strangle people in their beds, or worse. Gloamists guard their secrets greedily, creating an underground economy of grimoires. And to rob their fellow magicians, they need Charlie Hall.
Now, she’s trying to distance herself from past mistakes, but getting out isn’t easy. Bartending at a dive, she’s still entirely too close to the corrupt underbelly of the Berkshires. Not to mention that her sister Posey is desperate for magic, and that Charlie’s shadowless, and possibly soulless, boyfriend has been hiding things from her. When a terrible figure from her past returns, Charlie descends into a maelstrom of murder and lies.
Determined to survive, she’s up against a cast of doppelgangers, mercurial billionaires, gloamists, and the people she loves best in the world―all trying to steal a secret that will give them vast and terrible power.
http://blackholly.com
The cover is brilliant! Simple but striking, the font one of my favourites. I actually just used it on my romantic suspense novel Lure. It’s called Cinzel Decorative.
Twisted and gritty with a dash of kink, Book of Night will keep you flipping pages despite burning eyes and sagging lids. Why?
Lyrical language with strokes of hilarity. A to-die-for original premise. Intricate world building. A strong sympathetic protagonist who loses track of her lover, Vince, early on, and must face these dark, deceiving villains on her own. Charlie Hall is intelligent, witty, fearless, and skilled, though flawed by her past.
Black moves between past and present as they are intimately connected; something that really connects the reader with the character. If you can let go of this book, you will want more.
With all the hallmarks of urban fantasy—part-mystery, part-thriller, a dash of delicious fantasy, and a sprinkling of sexy—it’s perfect.
*****
P.S. For the most part I read books for review. When I get a chance to choose my own staycation adventure, I go to my favourite authors. Hence, Holly Black.
I’m excited to introduce you to my friend and fellow mystery/crime writer, Debra Purdy Kong and her latest crime fiction. If I remember correctly, the “gold satin” has something to do with a thong. My my!
I met Debra a few years ago at a Crime Writers of Canada event and we went on to share the stage at readings and events. Debra’s a seasoned author who knows how to paint a scene and entice her audience into reading more. See the first scene teaser below.
Debra’s volunteer experiences, criminology diploma, and various jobs inspired her to write mysteries set in BC’s Lower Mainland. Her employment as a campus security patrol and communications officer provided the background for her Casey Holland transit security novels.
Debra has published short stories in a variety of genres as well as personal essays, and articles for publications such as Chicken Soup for the Bride’s Soul, B.C. Parent Magazine, and The Vancouver Sun. She is a facilitator for the Creative Writing Program through Port Moody Recreation and a long-time member of Crime Writers of Canada. She lives in British Columbia, Canada.
The Blurb:
Transit cop Casey Holland has never met a bus passenger like the charming artist and exotic dancer, Eduardo. The bus driver Lily has certainly befriended him. But when Eduardo’s charged with murder, Lily’s caught in the middle of his legal trouble. Afraid of losing her job and custody of her son, she begs Casey for help in proving Eduardo’s innocence.
Casey’s search for answers takes her and her best friend Kendal to a troupe of strippers known as Man Cave. While the men are busy peeling off their clothes, Casey’s peeling back layers of secrets and betrayal. Nuttier than her usual adventures, the risk is just as deadly in this seventh installment of the Casey Holland transit mysteries.
When I read the blurb for Debra’s latest Casey Holland novella, I was intrigued by the character Eduardo and the male strippers known as The Man Cave. I really think Eduardo needs to meet up with my protagonist, Estrada, and spend some time at Club Pegasus. Estrada would be happy to introduce Eduardo to beautiful women so he could leave his bus-hopping days behind. Anyway, I asked Debra to tell me about Eduardo.
Where did Eduardo come from and what was the inspiration for this book?
I wanted to create a character who’s relatively uncomplicated and positive, yet still interesting. Eduardo’s a composite of people I met while working as a campus security guard several years ago, although none of them were aspiring artists or part-time strippers, like Eduardo. Some were new immigrants who struggled with English. They were engineers, doctors, and dentists in their birth countries and doing whatever they could to pay the bills until they acquired Canadian accreditation. They were the sweetest, most respectful guys to work with. There were also a few coworkers who possessed a great deal of swagger and over-confidence in their abilities.
Those experiences reinforced a truth I’ve known for some time. There’s always much more to people than meets the eye, and not everyone’s motives are negative. Eduardo is flawed, but he’s also a happy, easygoing guy. He’s an artist, a professional escort, and a stripper. He loves his family and wouldn’t wish harm on anyone, which is why his arrest for murder baffles him.
I chose those jobs for Eduardo because it suits his character. It also creates a quirky, somewhat awkward situation for Casey and her husband Lou. In the previous books, Casey’s work as a security officer for a bus company has either evolved into or merged with serious and dangerous situations. I wanted to give her a bit of a break from that level of intensity while still investigating a crime. To be honest, I haven’t been to a real-life Chippendales-type show. A member of my writers’ group has, though, and she shared some great insights about female audiences. In my early twenties, my boyfriend at the time took me to see female strippers. As I recall, the male audience was exceptionally well-behaved compared with the women in my story. But as characters discover in A Gold Satin Murder (a novella), actions, in and out of the shows, have consequences
Are you intrigued? Do you want more?
Here are the buy and connect links. But scroll down for a little September gift from Debra and read the first scene!
After a decade of security work for Mainland Public Transport, Casey Holland had learned that troublesome passengers were usually rude, loud, and poorly dressed. But the gorgeous, broad-shouldered man in the charcoal suit, white shirt, and bright red tie strutting down the aisle was a new, intriguing challenge.
The moment the man spotted Casey, he gave her a broad, toothy smile. Cool. Her silky, low-cut tank top and dangling crystal earrings were doing their job. Undercover assignments rarely involved dressing up, but passenger complaints about a hot guy who’d been badgering women to model for his paintings required a different fashion choice. Besides, the bus was way too warm this late-July evening. The less she had to wear the better.
Casey winked at the man, then tilted her head toward the empty seat next to her. He slowed his pace and nodded to the gaping middle-aged woman he passed by. Judging from a quick survey, the man had caught the attention of most passengers. The men didn’t look as impressed as the women, though.
“Hola, señorita.” Gold-flecked brown eyes glanced at her hands as he sat down. “I am Eduardo from Ecuador.”
“Casey. From Vancouver,” she replied. “How are ya?” To reveal she was a señora who’d been happily married for just over a year might put him off, so the wedding rings stayed home.
“Excelente.” He beamed. “I am here only three months, but I am in love with Vancouver. It has many interesting people.”
“That it does.” His cedarwood and vanilla cologne sent a jolt of nostalgia through Casey. When Dad was alive, she occasionally gave him a bottle of something similarly scented for Father’s Day. She sat up straighter and zeroed in on Eduardo. Not the time for reflection.
“I apologize if my English is not so good,” Eduardo said.
“It sounds fine to me.” She smiled. “Do you live in this part of the city?”
“Si. Only one block away. I love to walk and ride the buses and talk to people.”
He’d have many opportunities to do exactly that in Vancouver’s densely populated West End. Thanks to nearby Stanley Park, the popular English Bay beach, and many eateries, the area attracted tons of tourists as well as visitors from other areas of the Lower Mainland.
“Your eyes!” Eduardo slapped his hand over his heart. “La violeta. Extraordinario! I have not seen such a shade before. I am professional artista. May I paint you? It would be great honor! You are so be-eau-tiful.”
“Thank you.” Great honor and beautiful were the exact words two of the complainants had used in their written statements. “So, how many women have you approached about painting their portraits, especially while riding this bus?”
“Qué?” Eduardo’s smile faded. “Why do you ask me this?”
“I’m with Mainland Public Transport security.” She showed him her ID card. “We’ve had harassment complaints about you. One woman threatened to involve the police if it happened again.”
His eyes widened. “This cannot be.”
“The complaints said you wouldn’t take no for an answer until they either changed seats or left the bus.”
Eduardo sat back in his seat. “I am stupefied!”
Casey didn’t buy the naïve act. “Harassment of any type on MPT buses is against company policy.”
He fidgeted, not quite meeting her gaze. “I am just a single man who loves ladies and to create art.”
Eduardo produced a business card depicting an elegantly designed maple tree with crimson and tangerine leaves. But anyone could create a card and pass himself off as an artist.
“Is difficult to find models in new city. Art schools are filled up.” He frowned. “And many ladies choose to sit next to me and ask what I do to earn money.”
She believed him. Given the lusty stares a couple of women were tossing his way, Eduardo had probably found more than a few willing models and dates.
“Is it wrong to talk about art, or to ask a be-eau-tiful lady on a date? I might break bus rules, but I am not breaking real laws, no?”
Casey sighed. “Are you and I going to have a problem?”
He raised his hands, palms facing her. “I do not want trouble, but I must pursue my art.”
“Eduardo, the rules are there for a reason. They also give me the authority to kick you off any MPT bus if you’re breaking them.” Casey paused. “If you’re going to discuss portrait painting, then be clear about what you want. If you’re turned down, then I strongly advise you to leave the passenger alone. I assume you expect to be paid for your portraits?”
Eduardo nodded. “I do this not only for money but to find true soulmate.” He lowered his head. “I am not so lucky in love. Is heartbreaking road filled with big potholes.”
“Uh-huh.” She studied him. “Do you think you’ll find love on a bus?”
“I search everywhere.”’
Eduardo’s expression and demeanor seemed sincere, but she had her doubts about this guy.
“You must have tried dating apps,” she said.
“Si.” He grimaced. “They were not good. Is better to meet ladies in person.” He gave her a whimsical look. “Everywhere.”
Meaning he intended to keep chatting up women on MPT buses. Eduardo might be better looking and more polite than other rule breakers, but his resistant attitude was all too familiar. She’d be seeing him again, no doubt, and their second encounter wouldn’t be as cordial.
“Just be careful about what you say,” she cautioned. “Misunderstandings happen easily.”
The corners of Eduardo’s full, sensuous mouth turned down. “What shall I talk about? The boring weather? Is what others do.”
“Eduardo, buddy, unless someone speaks to you first, it might be best if you didn’t talk at all.”
Twenty-five years ago today, on July 10, 1997, we left our home in Ontario for a new life in British Columbia.
At the time, I was working as a domestic abuse counsellor in a transition house in Oshawa, Ontario. Bethesda House is still there, helping women and children find their way through a tumultuous time. I’d graduated with my B.A. in Indigenous Studies in 1995, worked as a sexual assault counsellor at a Rape Crisis Centre, and then been hired at Bethesda House. But I was done with Ontario. The hot summers. The snowy winters. Freezing pipes and terrifying drives through icy roads. Bad weather and worse boyfriends. When I stopped feeling my fingers in winter, I knew I had to go.
I had no job and no idea where we’d live in British Columbia, but I had one friend on the Sunshine Coast and another in the Kootenays. I’d been accepted at UBC, and thought maybe I’d become a teacher.
My daughter had graduated from grade 8 that year and was starting high school. What better time to begin an adventure?
Tara & Carmen. still friends today
Fortunately, I jotted down a few notes in a journal as we drove West, like so many have done before us, and continue to do today. My daughter was fourteen, and we had Riley with us, our six-month-old border collie. Our friend, Dave, helped us pack the U-Haul trailer. I’ll never forget those puffins on the side! Dave helped us hitch it to my old white Cavalier station wagon. We looked something like this.
Everything we owned we packed in that trailer, but left our camping gear in the back of the wagon. I’d found a campground close to Vancouver—Anmore Campground near Buntzen Lake. That X on the map was our destination.
packing up our possessions
I’d never hauled a trailer and had no idea how to back it up, so we drove the whole way going forward. Except for this one time when I drove to the top of a hill and then realized I was on a dead end road. Somehow, I turned us around jack-knifing, cursing, and praying all the while. The following is taken from my 1997 journal.
Thursday July 10. We drove off at 6am and landed at the Queensway Motel in Espanola (between Sudbury and Sault Ste. Marie) at 3:30pm — $40/night. 486 km and $16.00 for gas.
Friday July 11. We left Espanola at 6am and crossed the border into Michigan at 9:30 am. By 8pm, we’d arrived in Wakefield. 13 hours. 733 km and $16.00 for gas. I wrote: “The country along the South Superior shore is beautiful. We swam in Superior between Munising and Marquette. Gorgeous sandy beaches, but the water is freezing!”
Saturday July 12. We left Wakefield, Michigan at 6am and drove through two whole states: Wisconsin and Minnesota. I loved the land, the national parks, and later set a novel right there in central Minnesota near the Leech Lake Reservation—LURE. We arrived in Grand Forks, North Dakota around 4pm. 10 hours. 635 km and $23.50 for gas. I wrote: “Yikes. Prairie rain. We drove through two hours of hard rain storms but tonight is very hot and humid. More thunderstorms expected.”
Sunday July 13. We left Grand Forks at 6:30am and drove to Williston, North Dakota (which is almost Montana). We arrived at the Select Inn at 3pm. 8.25 hours. 546 km and $20.50 for gas. I wrote: “Ran rainclouds and learned to read a prairie sky. Yeah! They have a pool! We ate supper at a cool place called Trappers Kettle.” Aha. It’s still there and still cool.
Monday July 14. We left Williston at 6:15am, changed time zones again, and arrived in Laurel (just past Billings) Montana at 3:30pm. It was sunny & 90 degrees F. We were just too frazzled to go on. 615 km and $19.50 for gas. We stayed at the Welcome Travelers Motel. I wrote: “Miles and miles of rangeland dotted with cows and horses. We passed deer and pheasants on the road.”
Roadside Break in Montana
Tuesday July 15. At 6am, we left Laurel Montana. We drove through the Rocky Mountains all through Montana and Idaho. Yellowstone Country! We almost didn’t make it to the top of Lookout Pass in Montana, and the Fourth of July Pass in Idaho was terrifying—driving in 3rd gear, 20mph to the top. We landed in Sprague, Washington at 7pm as we stopped to shop in Butte, Montana. 14 hours. 913 km. I think I was too freaked out to check the gas! I remember that Sprague was a one-silo town and I had the creeps. We stayed at the Purple Sage Motel (now closed) and I hid my purse in the bed with me that night. This Capital I Introvert was starting to lose her mind.
Wednesday July 16. A HORRIBLE HORRIBLE DAY. We left Sprague and drove through the Cascade Mountains. As we drove up the pass, my temperature gauge glowed red and as we hurtled down the other side it slipped back into the green. It was blistering hot but I kept my foot on the gas.
We drove through Seattle at noon and arrived at Canada Customs at 2pm. As we were sitting in the lineup at the Peace Arch, I smelled something burning. “I hope that’s not us,” I said to Tara. Then we saw smoke wafting out the hood of the wagon. I’d toasted the thermostat and the fan. The motor ran out of coolant and the car overheated. The border guard took one look at us and waved us on. “Just go,” he said. “Just keep going.” We drove through White Rock spewing coolant. Some nice guys helped us out at Crescent Service Station where we got a new thermostat installed. Still, we overheated all the way through New Westminster. I hated driving through New West, and I still do to this day! We finally arrived at the Sleepy Lodge Motel in Coquitlam at 8pm. Riley ate some rotten bone out back and had diarrhea all over the disgusting gold shag rug! I wrote: “Oh yeah. I got my period too.”
Thursday July 17. We unpacked the trailer at the U-Haul Storage in Port Moody and got the fan fixed at Canadian Tire. From Sprague Washington to Port Moody 695 km.
And then we got a fantastic camping spot in the overflow area at Anmore Campground near Buntzen Lake. We pitched the tent and crawled into our sleepings bags for the very first time. $22/night. We’d finally made it to that little X on the map.
Caesarea, Ontario to Buntzen Lake, BC 4,258 KM in 7 DAYS
Ironically, I ended up living and teaching in Port Moody for most of the next twenty-five years, though I never went to UBC. On Saturday July 19, we drove down Hastings Street and right through downtown Vancouver. I wrote: “Scary. Chaotic. Too many people. Too little space. No UBC.” At the time, I knew nothing about the Downtown Eastside, and the people we saw there in the streets that Saturday morning. On the way back to Port Moody, we decided to try and find a beach. I mean, we were finally at the West Coast and hadn’t found the ocean yet! I looked at the map and chose Wreck Beach which, unbeknownst to us at the time, is the most famous nude beach in Vancouver. Right about then, we realized we rural Ontario girls were just not ready for Vancouver life.
I was destroyed! I thought I’d made a huge mistake and was considering going back to Ontario. I called my friend, Jackie, who lives in Kaslo (the Kootenay Mountains) and asked if we could stay at her place for a few days while I figured out what to do. It didn’t look far on the map (just over an inch) but 13 hours later, I was driving through the Rockies, covering my view of the drop-off cliffs, and crying, “I can’t do this!” I told Jackie I’d never drive to her place again along the Crow’s Nest highway, and I never have. I love you Jackie, but mountains to flatlanders are like traversing another planet. Jackie calmed me down, and while we were visiting, we found our first basement suite in Burnaby at Canada Way and 10th Avenue. I discovered SFU on Burnaby Mountain, and so our new lives began.
We had great times at Anmore Campground and, years later, I set my Hollystone Mystery series at Buntzen Lake. We camped for about three weeks and, after that, my daughter refused to camp with me ever again! Though I think I still have that old blue cooler.
In all, we travelled 4,258 km in 7 days—me, my 14-year-old daughter, and our 6-month-old border collie puppy.
No regrets. If we’d stayed in Ontario our lives would be someone else’s lives. We wouldn’t be the people we are today. We wouldn’t know the people we know today. And oh, the experiences we would have missed.
Welsh-Canadian crime aficionado, Cathy Ace, has been writing up a storm—in this case, a veritable dust storm—featuring her mystery-solving avatar, Cait Morgan. In Book Twelve, the criminal psychologist and her ex-RCMP husband, Bud, fly to Arizona as guests-of-honour of the Desert Gem, a posh new restaurant run by their sweet chef-friend, Serendipity Soul.
This is my favourite Cait Morgan crime romp for a few reasons.
Landscape. The landscape truly becomes a character in this novel. This story really couldn’t be set anywhere else. Before heading to the Desert Gem, Cait and Bud tour Frank Lloyd Wright’s desert oasis, Taliesin West with its “emerald grass and turquoise waters . . . rust-coloured paint . . . and saguaro cactus.” The Sonoran Desert in Arizona is a stunning location, rife with its own mythology, and like the infamous Sedona, attracts artists and eccentrics.
Imagination. Linda, leader of the Faceting for Life movement is the personification of a Navajo Goddess, the Turquoise Woman, right down to her turquoise toes. She actually dips her feet in dye weekly to keep them that way. She wears turquoise robes, and her dig is decorated in real turquoise. Linda is the cult leader until she’s discovered dead in her bed from an apparent, elaborate suicide. Zara then assumes her mother’s position and channels her dead father, Demetrius Karaplis. Ace’s foray into cult research is obvious—“let’s not drink the Kool-Aid”—but feathered by her brilliant imagination. The devotees “sway and hiss” their mantra, “Facet and Face It,” while Ace deepens our experience with an exploration of the “fourteen Critical Facets,” terms such as “buffing” (of the facets), and the billion-dollar business buffed by Zara using her father’s words.
Language. Speaking of words, Ace obviously had tons of fun naming her characters and acknowledges that several of the names pay homage to literary friends including KSue, Dru Ann, and Linda Karaplis. Chapter titles are a witty smorgasbord of oxymorons—“Serene Turbulence, Rustic Elegance, Unsettled Settling, Abnormally Normal,” and my favourite, “Uncommunicative Communicator.” We all know one of those.
The faceting language sets us squarely inside the cult. And, if that’s not enough, the text is peppered with unexpected terms and Britishisms (I’m unsure as to which are which) to remind us that both Ace and her counterpart, Cait Morgan, grew up in Wales—“chalk and cheese, mugged a salute, kerfuffle, slanging, yompy, lumpen substance.” Sleepy Bud makes “truffling” noises and Cait wears white “spudgy” shoes. Ace’s affinity with language surprises, delights and leaves us craving more.
Eco-everything. The Desert Gem is created in “pueblo revival architectural style” and illuminated by dancing flames of fire bowls around a central plaza. No electric lights are permitted after dark in this Earth-conscious community. Facetors and visitors live in small simple “digs” circling the plaza. Ace invites us into Cait and Bud’s dig with a vivid description that has me, for one, wanting to travel south. The Desert Gem is an eco-testament with a solar farm, waste-water treatment area, bio-digester, gardens, pool, amphitheatre, communications hub and refectory. Who wouldn’t want to stay awhile and buff their facets?
It’s all well and good until the bodies start piling up—all apparent suicides of major faceting players.
If you haven’t read any of Cathy Ace’s cozies, Turquoise Toes is a great place to begin. Each can be read alone, but your appreciation of Cait and Bud can be enriched by living their adventures in sequence. Cait is a strong, independent woman gifted with an eidetic (photographic) memory which allows her to decimate the villains triumphantly in her big reveal. Ace really kicks it up a notch in Turquoise Toes.
This is an incredible novel. Poetic. Prophetic. Powerful. I’m not even sure how it ended up on my Kindle; perhaps it was on a free books newsletter and I downloaded it based on the glorious front cover. I love watching jellyfish. They’ve always been my favourite tank at the Vancouver Aquarium. Of course, there they were captive jellyfish contained for our amusement and we, watching from the outside, felt safe.
Here, jellyfish are marauders and we are their amusement.
“The jellyfish rule the ocean now. With limited predators, warm oceans and over 700 million years of evolution, they’ve become sly at adapting to the elements.”
This impactful apocalyptic novel—the first in Jillian Webster’s The Forgotten Ones trilogy—begins in futuristic New Zealand, where the writer now lives. The book falls into that newish realm we call eco-fiction or eco-myth. The writing is poetic and literary; the plot, adventurous with enough romantic suspense to keep you up at night, and for those of us who love magic, Webster even adds a dash of the fantastical. Maia, the feisty twenty-year-old female protagonist, is something of a nature goddess. In this passage, reminiscent of the ancient Gaelic “Song of Amergin” Maia discovers her destiny and then must accept it, and wear it.
“You are the reincarnation of a living earth, long forsaken. You are her. You are the soul of the trees, the heartbeat of each crawling ant, the breath of every humming bee. You are the music of the babbling brook and the pulse of each undulating wave. You are the spotted clouds of deep red sunsets and every reflective crystal of white mountain tops. You are the delicate drop of rain and the crushing avalanche of ice.”
The tale begins with a prologue—a nightmare—in which a mother she cannot remember, beckons Maia to follow her destiny. This recurring dream precipitates Maia’s decision to leave the comfortable safety of the mountain haven her grandfather built for her, after he dies. Her choices? Live alone. Marry some old man from the North Island Community. Or follow her mother’s voice and set out to seek her destiny.
“Life as a whole tends to work like this; the most beautiful things in this world have been born from disaster.”
The philosophy is tribal. We’ve heard it before; yet we always forget. And the consequences of forgetting is a planet flooded due to melted poles, overrun with jellyfish. Powerless cities rot beneath the sea, and desperados run disparate communities. It can be triggering, given the state of Earth these days. Yet there is a glint of hope in this torpid sea of jellyfish. A rumoured Utopia —The Old Arctic Circle—The New World.
“Before The End, there was a lot of talk about this anomaly, this place on earth that for thousands of year had been covered in ice. A wasteland—no man’s land. Once the glaciers melted, there were these massive uninhabited pieces of earth at the very beginning stages of what they were like millions of years ago.”
Imagine it. A tropical paradise as yet pristine and unaffected by human greed. Wouldn’t you search for it? I would.
Be aware this book could trigger you. It will certainly make you think. When Maya dives off a pirated freighter into the sea off the west coast of California and lands in a wavering island of garbage, I almost stopped reading. It was too real, too much to dwell on. I know we’re dumping tons of plastic and garbage into the ocean daily. How long will it take before the garbage rises to the surface and becomes an island of nets, plastic, and death?
The best part for me was discovering that there is a book 2—The Burn of a Thousand Suns. I hope that people; at least, the “right” people hear the message Jillian Webster offers before it’s too late.
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