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Sunday, July 29, 2018

The Writer's Life 7/29 - Romance, Butts, Tats & Batteries

Born in Australia in 1950, Miranda Lee has written more than 75 romance novels. Recently, The Millionaire's Mistress came my way. It was published in paperback in 1999 and found new life in 2011 on Kindle, where it was issue in manga, which is defined as "Japanese comics and graphic books geared toward adults as well as children." Since I lacked any reading material that struck my fancy, and since I'd never read anything published by Harlequin, curiosity got the better of me and I gave it a shot. Set in Sydney, it was exactly what I expected, a pleasant story that ends predictably. To my surprise, it was not devoid of the psychology of human beings, but that's not what such fare is about. I liked the main characters: a mid thirties self made man who grew up in an orphanage, and a 21-year-old beauty who must change her privileged ways when her father succumbs to a fatal heart in a brothel and she discovers that the only thing he's left her is debt. There's is plenty of sex in its 185 pages, all with a positive spin. The prose and dialogue are what one expect, a tad over-written but clear and eminently readable. To my surprise, the novel has attracted ratings from 16 users at Amazon, who forge to a consensus 4.1 on a scale of five. Most must be fans of the genre. Since I'm not, I rate it 2.5. Here is the Harlequin edition cover illustration:


And here is the cover of the manga version attributed to Misao Hoshiai. Despite running a google search, I was unable to find if she did both the adaptation and the art work:


I hate smoking, but I also hate the way government gouges smokers. An article in today's NY Post reveals that the price of a pack of butts in the Big Apple is now $13. It is believed that illegal cigarettes account for 60% of sales in the city. Sadly, police resources are used to try to curb buttlegging, which takes manpower away from the fight against serious crimes. And one wonders if the high taxes inadvertently lead to smuggling that finances terror.

This Belle of Bay Parkway always greets me with a smile. I don't know her well, but she seems the antithesis of the tattoo she sports. I once asked about it, but her English is limited and she was unable to explain its origins. I'm sure it was youthful folly. I thank her for allowing me to indulge my fascination with it.


It was an unusual session of the floating book shop. My thanks to the gentleman who bought poetry collections by Maya Angelou and William Carlos Williams, and Italian Ways: On and Off the Rails from Milan to Palermo by Tim Parks; and to the elderly woman who purchased a book in Russian; and to the middle-age one who selected Chaim Potok's The Book of Lights. While I was waiting for customers to come along, a young man approached and asked if I'd give his dad's car a boost. His own car, a Lexus, was parked behind mine. It had recently suffered a hard ding that has made it impossible to open the hood. I reluctantly agreed and moved my old Hyundai beside the Suburu Outback, whose back window had been replaced by plastic. The battery was so dead it took about 20 minutes to get it going. The son thanked me effusively and gave me some cash, and the old timer gave me a little key chain/pocket light. Spasibo, gentlemen. I hope I haven't drained my own battery. Everything seemed fine on the drive home.
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