Unabridged Chick

I'm a 30-something married lesbian with a thing for literary fiction and historical novels. But I'm also having a pretty torrid affair with gritty noir and some paranormal/supernatural fiction. I love interesting heroines, gorgeous prose, place as character, and the occasional werewolf.

You can email me at unabridgedchick at gmail.com

Reviews, book giveaways, and author interviews at www.unabridgedchick.com

Recent Tweets @unabridgedchick
I’ve been reading reviews of my stories for twenty-five years, and can’t remember a single useful point in any of them, or the slightest good advice.
Anton Chekhov (via writingquotes)

My #weekendreads: Sherry Jones’ decadent novel of medieval love. It is rrrrreally good.

I do not share the pessimism of the age about the novel. They are one of our greatest spiritual, aesthetic and intellectual inventions. As a species it is story that distinguishes us, and one of the supreme expressions of story is the novel. Novels are not content. Nor are they are a mirror to life or an explanation of life or a guide to life. Novels are life, or they are nothing.
Richard Flanagan, on accepting the Man Booker Prize for The Narrow Road to the Deep North. (via mcnallyjackson)
I had a funny feeling as I saw the house disappear, as though I had written a poem and it was very good and I had lost it and would never remember it again.
Raymond Chandler, The High Window (via vintagecrimeblacklizard)

(via vintageanchorbooks)

Possible subtitles for this post:  What to read while waiting for (1) Downton Abbey Season 5 to be shown in the US, or (2) Kate Morton’s next book to be published.  Here’s a short gallery of “house” sagas published in various locales throughout the English-speaking world the US, UK, Ireland, and Australia that I came across recently.

H/T to theredshoes

theredshoes:

How dull our lives must seem to the bride, and the plighted maiden, whose days are fed with gold, and who gather pearls every evening; but to the wife, Susie, sometimes the wife forgotten, our lives perhaps seem dearer than all others in the world; you have seen flowers at morning, satisfied

A Damascus blade gleaming, and glancing in the sun was her wit. Her swift poetic rapture like the long glistening note of a bird one hears in the woods in June at high noon, but never can see….So intimate and passionate, her love of Nature, she seemed herself a part of the high March sky - the Summer day and bird call.
Susan Dickinson’s obituary for her sister-in-law Emily. Original manuscript, drafts and newspaper clippings here. (via theredshoes)