Did you hear the latest on J.K. Rowling, the forty-seven-year-old best-selling author of the Harry Potter series? She wrote a crime novel, The Cuckoo’s Calling, and did something sneaky. She published it under a pseudonym, Robert Galbraith, and pretended to be “a former plainclothes military policeman who had left the Army in 2003 to work in the private security industry” (The Telegraph). It’s perfectly logical why Rowling would use such deception. Imagine being such a successful author and trying to publish something after Harry Potter fame. Anything less successful would be a major letdown. She said, “Being Robert Galbraith has been such a liberating experience. It has been wonderful to publish without hype or expectation, and pure pleasure to get feedback under a different name” (The Telegraph). Later, she added, “Being Robert Galbraith has been all about the work, which is my favorite part of being a writer . . .…
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It’s weekends like this one, when family and friends observe July Fourth traditions over hamburgers, junk food, and fire crackers, that many of us reflect on those who paid the ultimate price to give us freedom. For me the holiday is also filled with memories of my dad driving my mom, me, and my three siblings to St. Clair, Michigan, to spend the day with his parents, Grandma and Grandpa Blumer, and my many cousins, aunts, and uncles. My grandparents lived at 232 South 9th Street in a tan two-story frame house much like those around it. My dad and his four brothers grew up in this house (wish I had a photo of it). Unfortunately, the place has long since been sold after Grandma Blumer passed away on January 15, 2000, after a stroke at age 87. She knew her Savior and is surely spending days of wonder at…
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I enjoyed this novel very much. Creston Mapes does a fine job weaving together two dissimilar plot: one about a troubled man who is stalking Jack Crittendon’s family, particularly his wife, Pam; and a second involving the disappearance of a pastor, whose suicidal tendencies suggest he may have taken his life. How these two unrelated story lines eventually merge is potential for an intriguing tale, and this one doesn’t disappoint. Mysteries abound, and journalist Jack is up to the task, using his investigative skills to unearth the truth. Meanwhile, the stalker ups the stakes, and Jack must become more aggressive to keep his family safe. When the unthinkable happens, his faith in God is put to the ultimate test. Creston is an author to watch. His masterful pacing starts from the first page’s home invasion and rarely, if ever, slows down. The adrenaline-laced plot is tight, and the characters—even the…
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The notion of lost memories and the mysteries of the brain have always fascinated me. Even more so when my dad was diagnosed with stage-4 brain cancer (glioblastoma multiforme) in January 2009. Because my parents moved to my town for Dad’s cancer treatments and I sometimes helped out as caregiver, I got to see the ravages of brain cancer up close and personal. Sometimes when my mom needed to get groceries or run other errands, I sat with my dad and worked on my laptop (rather like I’m doing now) while he slept in a reclined wheelchair. Usually Dad slept soundly, but other times he mumbled words. Names. A smattering of mumbled speech. Something garbled from a dream. Normally, the soliloquy made little sense, but sometimes I recognized a name. Roger. Wayne. (Those are the names of two of my dad’s four brothers.) I heard only an occasional word, but Mom…
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