My favorite books of 2015

I read a lot. As of this writing, I've finished 108 books this year, and I've probably got a couple more in me before the curtains close on 2015. In the grand tradition of book bloggers, I took to my list of books I read to bring you my five favorite books of the year. Plus, four books I read this year that I loved and wanted to be my favorites of the year, but they were published in previous years. Mostly, I just couldn't decide on five and made up a reason to have nine favorite books of the year. It's my list. No judgement.

Without further ado, here is Samantha’s top five books of 2015:

 

5. Of Noble Family by Mary Robinette Kowal, April 2015

4. Manners & Mutiny by Gail Carriger, November 2015

3. The Red-Rose Chain by Seanan McGuire, October 2015

2. H is for Hawk by Helen Macdonald, March 2015

1. Uprooted by Naomi Novik, May 2015

 

Samantha’s top four books/series that were published prior to 2015:

 

4. The Paying Guests by Sarah Waters, August 2014

3. Hild: A Novel by Nicola Griffith, November 2013

2. Still Alice by Lisa Genova, October 2010

1. The Harry Potter Series by J.K. Rowling, initially published June 1997

 

There was one other book that I really liked, but it was technically a novella, so it doesn't really fit in either list. It was exciting, inventive, and hilarious and I’d be remiss not to mention it. So, I'm awarding Matt Wallace’s Envy of Angels, October 2015 this year’s Miss Congeniality prize.

 

Happy reading! And here’s to another year of great books!

 

 

What I learned from my beautiful horse...

I got my first horse in the sixth grade. Her name was Crystal (which I quickly and, rather pompously, shortened to Crysty), and she was the most beautiful horse my 12 year-old brain had ever seen (mostly because she was mine). Crysty was half-trained and a bit on the skittish side, but I trained and rode and worked with her every day for years. I taught her to barrel race, and we got third place (and won 17 dollars) in the first and only rodeo we ever entered.

I'm 30 now, 31 tomorrow actually, and about a year and a half ago my beloved first horse came up lame. She was somewhere in the neighborhood of twenty years old (I never knew exactly how old she was when I got her, just that she was young.), and had never had any major health issues in her life. The veterinarian came out and diagnosed her with arthritis in her front legs. Nothing could be done except joint supplements and anti-inflammatories and lots of love. I never rode her again.

She hobbled on after her diagnoses. You could tell she hurt, but she could do all the basic things a horse should do and she was always happy to see me. Crysty was the most talkative horse I've ever met. She always greeted me with a nickel and would come to the fence to see if I'd brought her a treat. She would accept pets if I hadn't remembered to bring a treat with me.

Early this autumn, Crysty couldn't always walk. Sometimes, I'd go out to her pen and she’d nicker, but couldn't get up. I'd dutifully get her medication and do my best to keep her comfortable, but I was at a loss of what to do beyond that. I work in the veterinary field, but on the small animal side. I'm comfortable with options for elderly dogs and cats, and have processed probably close to or over a thousand bodies in my career. I had no idea what to do with a 800 pound horse.

This is the main reason I'm writing this for my blog; I couldn't find any information on what to do online. People really don't talk about these kinds of things. It's hard. I don't want people to be afraid of talking about what will happen after animals die, I encounter so many people in my work who have never considered it. It's never occurred to them that their beloved pets will one day need them to make the ultimate decision. Ask your veterinarians. They want to help. I forgot about that when I was worrying about my beautiful horse.

By the beginning of November, I knew there was no way Crysty could make it through the winter. She basically would get up for only an hour a day. My amazing horse was old, and she couldn't be a horse any longer. It wasn't fair to her to keep her alive just for me. She had given me everything in her twenty odd years, and now it was my turn to give everything back.

I asked my veterinarian and in my area basically the only thing to do with a horse after they’ve given the euthanasia injection is to bury them. On 19 November this year, I held my beautiful, best horse while my veterinarian administered the injection. She still lives on my parents property, and will forever.

I will miss her. I do miss her. I still expect her to greet me when I walk out the door. Hopefully, she’s winning all the barrel races in the sky. She was fast. She was amazing.

 

The Thing About Audiobooks

It is no secret that I absolutely Love audiobooks. I almost love them more than I love books. I've loved being read to since I was old enough to be read to. My grandpa would read to me for hours when I was a little kid (My favorite read was Digger Dan and the Steam Shovel Man.) and after he got sick and could no longer read to me, I read to him.

In elementary school, my favorite part of the day was any time my teacher would read to us out loud. My third grade teacher read us chapter books all year long. She would read a chapter a day. I loved Charlotte's Web, but I will never forget the day that Where the Red Fern Grows reduced my fearless teacher to tears. I think that was the first time I really realized that books could play with your emotions and leave you at the mercy of the author.

When I first discovered audiobooks, I realized that I could fill up the nooks and crannies in my day with stories. Driving, doing chores, running... All wonderful places to add stories. I loved it. It's funny. At first, I would only listen to stories narrated by the author. I thought that only the author would know how to read their own books, and to an extent, I still find this to be true (especially with memoirs), but I've also found that there are some narrators that have the ability to add depth and texture to the story. Sometimes, I just enjoy the sound of their voices (Neil Gaiman, Mary Robinette Kowal).

While listening to The Art of Asking by Amanda Palmer as I drove home yesterday, I realized that another thing I love about audiobooks is their intimacy. It is like having an intimate conversation or relationship even with all sorts of different people from all walks of life. I love this aspect of audiobooks. It takes those memories of family and teachers reading aloud to me and moves it to the next level. It's amazing.

Waking Up

My creative side is slowly coming out of hibernation. It is taking much longer than I had thought it would. I haven't really figured out a system yet for writing. I'm not sure if I prefer typing on my laptop, or my iPad, or if I should go back to longhand on a good old piece of dead tree. The latter sounds a bit ridiculous to me just for the sake of then having to go back and type it into one of the other two devices.

There is a lesbian zombie story currently running around in my head, which would be great, but it's competing with a lesbian nun Inquisition story. Makes for a tired creative when there are competing stories running amok in your head. I am having trouble picking between the two, because I can't have both stories vying for my attention. My world doesn't work that way.

I suppose at the end of the day, I should just pick one, start writing and see where it leads me. Surely, nothing bad will come of either, and I must say, the world needs more LGBT fiction. We are making headway in that area, but me from 15 years ago would have been better off had there been more. More stories. More protagonists. More love stories that didn't make me feel uncomfortable because I was wired totally differently.

I want to be a role model for kids like I was once upon a time. I want to create characters who will be loved and who are flawed, but who are authentic and real and not straight, or white. I want my characters to be exactly like regular people, but who just happen to be LGBT. Because I am a lesbian, and I am a regular, flawed, mostly good person.

I love stories. I just hope I can write the stories I want to read.

 

A Birthday 46 Days from Christmas

Today, my youngest brother turns 21, that final stepping stone to adulthood. I remember when I turned 21. My birthday was on a Saturday, and I spent the whole weekend drunk. Drunk with my friends. Drunk in casinos with my family. I can't say that I don't have fond memories of that weekend.

Unfortunately, for my brother, his birthday falls on a Tuesday. He has class, and responsibilities. However, he is that one person in my life for whom I have no problem buying presents. He and I, as much as I hate to admit it, are practically the same person as far as tastes go. This birthday, he's getting apple pie flavored vodka that features a pinup girl on the label, and a book. Also, as much booze as he can drink. This is a right of passage, remember?

But, better yet, I've already started shopping for his Christmas present. I think the boy is getting a pair of wooden training swords for Christmas. I've already gotten him the real deal, but I refuse to spar with them. I value my life. Now, like for his 21st birthday, the most important part is the doing of the thing. That means I'm going to be required to spar with the boy with the two wooden swords. I've already started planning. I have a full set of catchers gear (Thank you, high school softball.), and I need to get some sort of hand guards.

I'm thirty, he's 21. This cannot possibly go well. That said, I'm still going to do it. Maybe I'll just get him drunk first.

Happy birthday, little brother.

P.S. Internet, don't let the Christmas present cat out of the bag.

on a lack of writing...

Somewhere along the line, I stopped writing. I love writing. I always have loved writing. I have notebooks filled with thoughts and hopes I wrote in college. I wrote stories and blogs, and I wanted a doctorate in history so I could write for a living. What happened? I still carry a journal around with me where ever it is my life takes me. I'm not sure the last time I wrote in it. Maybe 6 months ago. Maybe longer. I just finished reading my 102nd book last night. In my brain, I want to write. I think I've forgotten how. I can't seem to make my ideas turn into anything and the words no longer flow onto the page (or iPad screen, as the case may be). Next year, I want to write a book. I have ideas. Lots of ideas. The problem is the execution. That's why I'm starting now. Working on blog posts should get the creative juices flowing. That's the idea anyway. Blog posts lead to stories. And stories, hopefully, lead to something in the 80k range. That's my idea. I'm going to try my best to make it work. I've always wanted to be a writer. I can still be one. I am one. Just a rusty one. Besides, if I don't write stories, my lady is going to be disappointed. We can't have that.

The Specimen

My girlfriend had a collection of specimens. She picked them up from here and there. Parking lots. Woods. Roads. Wherever she happened to go. When she saw something worth keeping, she put it in a jar on the shelf in our basement. She called it her specimen collection. I never knew what I would find when I perused that shelf.

The day that I found a thumb floating in a jar was the day that I knew I didn’t know my girlfriend as well as I thought. The thumb, shriveled and grey. Seemed to be looking at me. Accusing me. I didn’t know what to do.

I did nothing.

I should have asked her about it. Really, I’m not sure why I didn’t, but I convinced myself there was nothing amiss. It couldn’t really be a thumb, could it? Surely not.

The night the police came the pounding on the door was as loud as a few grenades exploding next door. What was going on? I didn’t know. They told me to open the door, or they were going to break it down. As I hesitated, the door came flying inward. It almost hit me, but I had stopped just far enough away that it missed.

As the men came swarming through my newly broken door, my thoughts went to the thumb. What had I done? What had she done? They asked me where she was. I didn’t know, but I knew where that jar was. As I led them down the stairs, I knew my life would never be the same again.

Spider x 3

“Oh! Spider! Oh! Oh!” squealed my beautiful girlfriend as we smoked our before bed cigarettes on the porch stoop. I watched her squirm for a few seconds before I smashed the spider with the palm of my hand. Her relief was palpable. She loves me for my mad spider killing skills.

***

The spider sat in the bottom corner of her web as it shook violently. She sat quietly, and instead of running to see what she had caught. She sat quietly. She wasn’t hungry. She was dead, but a minuscule copy of her ran out from below the web. The baby knew instinctually to run at the intruder, wrap it up, and save it to share with the other babies hatching from the egg sack down below.

***

“Mommy, why do spiders have so many legs?”

“To make you ask questions, honey. Why do you ask?”

The little boy shook his head, and sat silently in his car seat. His mother glanced back at her son. She could only spare a glance, as she was preoccupied with the traffic on their drive home. She didn’t notice the small black and red spider sitting cupped in her son’s small hands.