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Epiphany Magazine - epiphmag.com Issue 14
An unpretentious publication for all who enjoy poetry, prose and Artwork
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Epiphany Magazine - epiphmag.com
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BOOK REVIEWS
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Erika Hoffman
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Erika Hoffman began writing with the goal of publication in 2007. At this point, she has been published over 100 times. She has authored one novel, Secrets, Lies, and Grace, using a pseudonym. The story is about teen twins, one who is bullied and one who is kidnapped. It's available from Amazon, B&N, or the publisher---Comfort Publishing.
Erika Hoffman is a frequent contributor to The Chicken Soup for the Soul anthologies. Besides writing inspirational, non-fiction narratives for magazines, e-zines, and other anthologies she pens mysteries and novels. The webpage for her novel is: secretsliesandgrace
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The Devil in the White City
by Eric Larson
A Review
by
Erika Hoffman
A couple of years back, Central Carolina Community College in Pittsboro, N C began a creative writing program. I've taken a few courses in this series. One was taught by John Bemis, a former Language Arts teacher at North Chatham K-8 Elementary School. Now John writes novels for a living, fulltime. During class, he spoke about literature that inspires him. One book he'd just finished reading was The Devil in the White City. The title intrigued me; however, I am a tremendously slow page turner so unless I'm dang sure I'll find something meritorious in the prose, I resist opening the book jacket. John assured us we would.
What I discovered was Larson's nonfiction account of the Columbian Exposition in Chicago in 1893. His narrative is both eloquent and exciting. Larsen records the lives of two charming men. One is the architect, Daniel Burham, who coaxed numerous influential businessmen to invest in his dream and then persuaded other talented architects to come together to build this city of white buildings and lights, which would temporarily transform a slaughterhouse megalopolis into a magical fairyland. The other man, whose exploits Larson chronicles, is a winsome, handsome chap--- a snake oil salesman of sorts--- who through skilled deception and enticing promises bilks friends and patients as well as moneyed women or beautiful ones. No matter how close and dependent and kind these cohorts are to him, their fates remain the same. He kills them. Even their children!
Egad! This book is about a serial killer, mainly. Yet, the parallel story is about a good man who builds. Burham's tale is juxtaposed with that of a bad man, Dr. H.H. Holmes, who destroys. And they both enact their dreams during the spate of The White City - The World's Fair.
Eric Larson's opus is not simply written. He has a literary touch and a painstakingly researched edge to his prose. If you are like me, you read things that you've heard about from word of mouth. Yet, sometimes, it's rewarding to try something recommended from someone you don't know, but who has taken the time to laud a product for no other reason than to share the news that it's a good read and you will not have wasted your time in taking it on.
To learn more about
The Devil in the White City and Author Erik Larson visit:
randomhouse.com/crown/devilinthewhitecity/
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In the Sanctuary of Outcasts
by Neil White
A Review
by
Erika Hoffman
As a writer I've learned two things matter most in marketing a book: its cover and its title. If the illustration isn't engaging, the prospective reader will slide your opus back into the slot it just vacated on the shelf with a million other books waiting to be claimed. If the title doesn't catch the reader's attention, game over. Titles sell best if they are short, like three syllables with long vowels such as Eat, Pray, Love. Understandable, potent words!
Therefore, when I was assigned to read In the Sanctuary of Outcasts, I balked. I asked the B&N clerk over at Southpoint if he knew of the book. He nodded and fetched it. "It's a memoir," he said handing it to me. I almost audibly groaned. Some folks call these "Me- moirs" as they can be self - absorbed opuses. The title didn't grab me, at all. The word "outcast" summons up the image of troubled teens or a woman wearing a scarlet letter A. And everyone remembers the doomed misfits from Bret Harte's tale The Outcasts of Poker Flat, assigned homework in high school. "Sanctuary" didn't lure me, either. I figured it referred to a sacred place inhabited by a bunch of societal pariahs, probably drug addicts who had themselves to blame for their sad situation. I knew I'd have to trudge through this book.
Then, I read the blurb by John Grisham on the front cover. If John liked, it, it can't be dull. And the author of Midnight in the Garden of Good and Evil approved too, so I figured this narrative must be well written. Scores of others sang the book's praises on those opening leaves, and from the multitude of endorsements, I got a clue as to the substance of the book and who the outcasts were. Lepers! Now I've not read anything about lepers except in the Bible. Leprosy is an ancient disease, and I never knew or couldn't remember how it was cured or what caused the dreaded, disfiguring illness. Next, I read the back jacket and learned that the place where these lepers were kept in the US also housed criminals as a way for the leper colony to meet expenses. And the man who penned this memoir had been a writer and a publisher and became an inmate imprisoned for kiting checks. He was placed in Carville, Louisiana, in the institution for lepers. I was hooked.
With every page I turned, I became more fascinated with the fate of this once upstanding, promising, educated man who now found refuge in friendships with crack dealers and car thieves as well as with the amputees and blinded victims of leprosy. Intrigued with his personal life and his marriage woes and his back story about his Mississippi heritage, I flipped the pages reading it as if it were a fast paced vampire tale! The revelations that occur to Neil White as he does his jail time among these outcasts of society, through no fault of their own, are gems of wisdom that anyone who thinks himself too above it all, needs to learn. In seventh grade, I read Johnny Tremain and remember how he scoffed at folks who cautioned him about his acting too proud of his silver smithing skills, and then Johnny lost his abilities when burning his hand badly. This memoir about incarceration with lepers and prisoners has the same ethics lesson running throughout as did that classic: Pride goeth before the fall.
In addition, this book has enormous hope. Neil White takes his lemon of an experience and makes a sweet nectar from it by learning new skills, befriending folks he'd have never brushed shoulders with in his previous life, and appreciating the true things that matter in the end. It's an uplifting story that shows that even in a desperate situation one can find hope and salvation. But like any good medicine, it goes down easy because it's full of humor and the characterizations are spot on. Each chapter is a vignette and can stand alone.
Sometimes, it's good to be assigned a book to read. I discovered a pleasure I'd not have known if left to my own devices where I'd have put the thing down because I often judge a book by its cover. Or title! By the time I pressed closed the back cover, I couldn't think of anything more appropriate for this memoir to be named than In the Sanctuary of Outcasts.
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Carolyn Plath is a life-long writer, first receiving recognition for her work in 5th grade. She placed 3rd in the Jack London Awards competition of the California Writer's Club. She has two weekly columns published in The Benicia Herald. "Think Dream Play" is a slice of life/humor column, and "Send Me Your Dreams" is an advice column based on readers' submissions of their dreams. Go to: sendmeyourdreams to read this column.
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Think Dream Play
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Dream Writer
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Who's Calling Who "Creepy"?
by
Carolyn Plath
My cats are creeping me out. Twice now, when my husband was out of town, I've awakened to the sound of running water.
OK, it didn't wake me up. I got up for another reason and heard the water running. Or, maybe I heard the water running in my sleep, which in turn made me want to get up for that other reason...but never mind!
The point is, it's creepy to be alone in the house, hear a sound you can't quite identify, follow it down the stairs and into the bathroom on the first floor in your bare feet just like in scary movies, doing everything as though it had an ominous soundtrack, to find the water running full force in the tub! Not funny! Creepy.
In their weird nocturnal shenanigans the cats must have mistaken the hot and cold levers for a spider or a bug, jumped up and pulled them down, turning on the water. That probably was pretty funny before the creepy part about the water running in an empty house in the middle of the night with the bare feet and all.
And the kitties? Where were they? Not to be found. Far away from the scene of the crime, coiled together, sleeping sweetly. The only evidence of their involvement, tiny paw prints and tufts of feline fur, could have been left any time. Not enough for a court of law or peace of mind.
I know. They're just kittens, less than a year old. But I had a long stretch of civilized life with a mature, dignified, well-mannered, sedentary cat: Susan, my gentle companion.
Last July, at 21 years old, she passed on to that sunny window seat in the sky. New kittens made the perfect salve for my broken heart. I took my own advice and got two. They'll keep each other company, I always said.
No...they'll split up and out flank you.
I'm like a grandmother raising her own grandchildren. They are way smarter and much more nimble than I am. I underestimated the focus and determination of the kitty mind.
To wit: They flipped the faucet again in the middle of the night! This time in the kitchen sink. You have to investigate, right? You can't just wake up and say, 'Oh, that sounds like running water again,' and go back to sleep. It's dumb to get dressed at 2am just to go downstairs; so there you are again, barefoot in your nighty. A most vulnerable feeling. And when I turned to go back to bed, there they stood, eyes wide, saying nothing.
Spooky.
Susan hadn't fought me for a drumstick in a couple of decades. Now Jesse lurches at me with the single-mindedness of that alien creature in... "Alien." Make no mistake: He will have chicken. Uma, his sidekick, gazes pointedly with amber eyes. It's unnerving. She commands a sense of fairness. If he gets chicken, so will she.
So, now I'm obliged to steal into the kitchen for my lunch. I just want a few bites of my chicken sandwich without having to keep moving and throw elbows. Like a ridiculous loser, an alcoholic surreptitiously sneaking a drink, I chose the moment to make my move.
If there were music to this scene, it would be plucking on the strings of a harp. Tink, tink. Tink, tink, tink. Maybe those are piano keys at the extreme right end of the keyboard. Tippy toeing through the hallway, past the door where the cats sleep. Did they raise their heads? Turn an ear? No. I'm safe.
Down the stairs. A breath. OK. Straighten up. More confident now, to the refrigerator. Tug on the handle and it opens with that sucking sound, the sound of a galosh (single for galoshes) being freed from mucky muck.
Pause. What was that? A thump?
Oh no.
A jingle. Trotting. Their turn to tink - needle-pointed claws on the hardwood of the staircase.
I scan the kitchen frantically. With only seconds to spare, I bolt into the pantry. Yes! I'm standing in the pantry, eating my sandwich, clutching the milk carton, and staring at my cats through the leaded glass door.
They stand and stare back, oh-so-mature, wide-eyed, shocked at my subterfuge. All this to avoid sharing? An adult in the pantry...! Really.
"Now that," they seemed to be saying, "is creepy."
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Cut Those Adverbs!
by
Carolyn Plath
A sure fire method for punching up your prose is to eliminate adverbs.
You do know an adverb when it insinuates itself into your sentence, don't you? Let's have an example or two:
Which is better?
* The sun burned hot on Lothor's chest.
* The sun burned very hot on Lothor's chest.
I'm curious about Lothor and where he left his shirt, but a very hot sun is neither hotter nor more evocative.
Look at these two:
* Evelyn's flippancy made her mother anxious.
* Evelyn's flippancy made her mother extremely anxious.
The risk is that if a writer permits an adverb to speak, she will let it suffice. Better to show mom's anxiety than tell us its degree. What does an anxious mother do?
Which creates a clearer image, telling us Timmy's nervous, or showing his nervousness?
* Timmy tiptoed nervously through the hallway.
* Timmy tiptoed through the hallway, holding his breath, eyes wide.
Now, try it yourself. How would you improve these first attempts?
* Frederick danced clumsily.
* Elaine smiled shyly.
* The water was especially cold.
You get the idea. Proceed without fear. Cut those adverbs!
And Write Dream Writers! Write!
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Epiphany Magazine - epiphmag.com Issue 14
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Call for submissions Epiphany Magazine, epiphmag.com, welcomes submissions of Poetry, Prose, Fiction, Non-Fiction, Creative Non-fiction, Artwork, Photos and reviews. Please visit our Submission Guidelines page and email submissions to: submissions@epiphmag.com.
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Authors, artists and contributors retain copyright over individual works.
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