According to the texts I get—and pay for, at 20 cents an unsolicited pop—my name is Ralph. Or Frances, Jocelyn, or Janice. On my landline, I am generally addressed by my correct name, often in a tone that suggests the caller is a personal friend. “You’re so hard to get hold of! I’m so glad you answered the phone…” It spooks me. And I don’t want to answer their surveys and unsolicited questions. But you know, maybe I should, in a way that’s safe and entertaining. (To me. It's all about me, because I pay for the landline!)

Herewith, some examples:
“The Nina, the Pinta and the Santa Maria”
“Alba gu brath!”
“42”
“Tom Bombadil”
“Para Espanol, Marque el dos”
“Gordon Setter”
“Bee Balm”
“Que? No habla englais.”
“Ayn Rand”
“Hedera Helix”
“Porthos, Athos and Aramis”
"Do you know where your towel is?"
"Millard Fillmore"

The trick is, none of these answers have anything to do with the questions being asked. And there’s no “yes”, “no”, nothing that can be recorded and twisted to another purpose. Just the random answer. No “Stop calling me!” After all these callers are just doing their job. No “This number is on the National Do Not Call List.” That’s proven to be useless. Just a random answer. I think…it’s going to be fun.

I’ve tried it—and it is fun!

Celtic Blood Series
Last year at about this time, the Youngstown Vindicator ceased publication after 140 years, was saved at the eleventh hour by being picked up by the Warren Tribune-Chronicle—and within six months ceased home deliveries to Western Pennsylvania. Although it was a morning paper by the end, I was rarely able to read it before I left for my day job—yet still, it was a routine to start the day: get the news, center, focus, connect.
Came the pandemic. I had already chosen to stop running out to a grocery store to get the Sunday edition—even though they had recently interviewed me—too much trouble for too little content. I signed up for Facebook. That gave me a way to connect. Some authors promote their books on Facebook. I’ve put a couple on my Kindle, and having used my stimulus money to upgrade my home tech, I’m more inclined to blog, so here goes!

Celtic Blood Series by Melanie Karsac
If you read my books—and you might, if you’re reading my blog—you probably know that I like character-driven stories. And Gruoch, aka Lady Macbeth, ought to fill that bill. A strong woman anchored in a vivid if violent time. I really enjoyed the way the author brought in elements of the Shakespeare play into dialogue in Highland Raven.
Only…some of those elements imply that these magical, Old Religion beings have serious power. And they do. Until they don’t, because as the author explains in her note at the end of Highland Queen, she did a complete overhaul of her first draft to give her characters “the endings they deserved”.

I’m sorry. All characters would like “to go on to happy-enough lives”. It’s just that sometimes the story demands something more. You don’t have to take my word for it. Just read Tolkien. Yes, it’s hard on the characters you love. But a false story does not resonate the way a heart-true one does.

I bought all four books, but my enjoyment ebbed with the final two.
And a few small points: having a character repeatedly say “I’m okay,” is sloppy characterization. How does a woman in the 1300s use a word which did not exist in her time? She also cannot walk into a room and see it filled with spinning wheels, no matter what point the author wants to make about how even a queen is expected to do woman’s work rather than a warrior’s. I’m a hand-spinner. That means I spin wool on a drop spindle, and I know things: Macbeth reigned 1040-1043—the spinning wheel didn’t reach Europe, much less Scotland till at least the 1350s. It’s a careless touch. It doesn’t spoil the story, but the lack of characterization does. These people all have a sameness, which makes it hard to care for them. It should be a compelling story, but it misses. 

​Firelord, by Parke Godwin
I wanted to re-read this one before I resume tackling my Arthurian project The High Road and the Low. It’s been years, and Parke Godwin is sadly gone, to dementia and into the dark, but I remember hearing him read—no, perform—Guenevere’s opening speech from Beloved Exile. He wrote character-driven fiction at its finest, and his take on Arthur’s story is unique.
It’s hard, when you’ve read a lot of Arthurian fiction, to judge fairly—it’s the same basic cast of characters, every time, every author. The same basic story. How can it possibly be fresh? I certainly will struggle with that. What’s my take on Arthur? How to I tell his tale?
Well, Parke Godwin found a splendid way. He did it by seeking out a culture that’s rarely used, barely explored. He may very well have invented it out of whole cloth, but it was informed invention. Everything about Prydn, Faerie, rings vibrant and true. You can see it, taste it, smell it. They move the heart, these forgotten, marginalized, dying people—the earliest Britons, gone into their Hollow Hills. And Godwin didn’t leave it there—the story expands into and continues in The Last Rainbow.
One thing many have noted about the Arthurian saga: Arthur himself is not much present, once Sword is pulled from Stone. The stories happen to others; Arthur just sort of presides over the storytelling after dinner. He won’t sit down to his meat until someone relates a marvel. A wonder the Court didn’t starve to death! The only time this isn’t in play is when Arthur is telling his story, first person, in his own voice. Rosemary Sutcliff’s Sword at Sunset, Godwin’s Firelord. It’s compelling. It’s unforgettable. 

No secret, books are my comfort and escape. While I’ve been blessed to work every day just as I would have if there was no pandemic, and further blessed to be able to start taking my annual vacation time, there were books I knew I wanted to read back in March, when the world shut down.
Not Neville Shute’s On the Beach. I’ve read it, I don’t remember any suggestion of comfort there. It’s a tale of people coping, with no hope, no hope whatsoever. Not the effect I was after!
Piece of Cake by Derek Robinson. I picked up in England the year it came out in paperback there, 1985. Read it then. Loaded it onto my Kindle because I was just too eager to re-read it to wait and dig it out of the shelves of books.
And then I let it sit after a chapter or so. Deflected by other escapes, e-books and physical books both. But I came back to it in September.
It’s about an RAF squadron before and during the Battle of Britain. Knights of the Air, gallant young men in powerful machines. Some of them are not very nice people, but they’re ideal fighter pilots. Most of them won’t live long enough to grow out of arrogance or childishness. Nice young men die far too soon—and so do the budding psychopaths, sooner or later.  There’s boredom and confusion, frustration and moments of sheer terror. There’s politics and bureaucracy. No one knows how it will come out in the end. They’re making it up as they go along. Answers, no. Common ground, yes.  
I’ve read since that the author caught a lot of flak—no pun intended—for refusing to tell the romantic version of the story. For hewing to the truth even when it was not popular. That’s timely too—I’m sure it was the same at Agincourt, and most likely at the siege of Troy.
There’s a sequel--A Good Clean Fight. Some of the surviving members of Hornet Squadron go on to serve in the war in Africa. I’m reading it now—and trust me on this, it’s not The Rat Patrol I watched on TV many years ago!