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Please welcome our guest reviewer today! Let’s see what she has to say. Take it away, V.B… Thank you! ♥ Requiem for Barbara by Branka Čubrilo  https://books2read.com/u/3JelNA This book tells the story of a daughter’s journey to understand her impressively complex mother who died too young, and frankly lived life too hard. Through a series of letters and visits with her father, her mother’s parents, and her mother’s lost love, Lora gets a taste of her mother as a person. But, getting her questions answered didn’t help her as much as she’d hoped. The writing enabled me to take the journey with Lora in an never ending pursuit of truth through knowledge. At the end, she got what she thought she wanted, only to learn this did not give her the results she’d hoped for. Finding our place in this world is hard. And the only way to get there is to experience situations like Lora’s. I found the book cathartic and confusing at times…which was how I think Lora must have felt. Meanwhile, it helped define what a true identity crisis can feel like. And it gave me a taste of the immigrant experience. NOTE: I was provided a copy of this book in exchange for an honest review. I give this book 4 stars because it was full of complex people and reflected true living.  Image by Tammy Osaokia from Pixabay. Book Blurb: When Barbara dies in Sydney, Australia, her daughter Lora finds a series of hidden letters addressed to her estranged father, Ted. Upon reading the letters, Lora realizes that she never really knew Barbara, except as a mother. She uncovers family secrets, sad and hurtful lies, and an array of fascinating people she never knew had made an impact on her mother’s life. Spurred by these new facts and discoveries, Lora decides to travel to Europe, to her mother’s hometown. In a chance encounter, she meets Davor—a world-famous, yet mysterious figure who was the cause of both Barbara and Lora’s happiness and sadness, as these emotions emerge entangled, intertwined by his story and fascinating past. The novel traverses Sydney, London and Düsseldorf, where the characters grapple with identity, belonging, and how we find solace amongst life’s biggest challenges and questions. Universal Reader link: https://books2read.com/u/3JelNA Here’s an excerpt from the book… My mother has died. For days after her burial, I did not know where to turn to. I am eighteen years old. I only had her; she died believing so. She left me a small apartment, furniture, paintings on the walls, a computer desk, and the computer on it. My first thought, my first impulse, was to sell all her belongings, to liberate myself from the unbearable pain. The pain sat on my chest and shoulders and in each moment, it seemed to me that mother was going to step into the living room from her study, deprived of sleep. The pain never lessened, but I understood that all around me was what was left to me after her passing away. Whatever I looked at, it spoke of her. Soon after her death, I sat at her desk in her study. My mother was a writer, and that was the way she tried to make our living. I always believed she was the best writer in the whole wide world . . . but she didn’t have much success. She published several short stories in women’s periodicals, a collection of poetry . . . she was far ahead of her time. Sitting there at her desk, I started to pull the drawers out to examine their contents. The contents in the drawers were in perfect order―which was not typical of my mother. She was not the victim of any kind of order. In the lowest and widest drawer, I found a cardboard folder tied up with a yellow ribbon. On the folder was written ‘Letters to Ted’. So, it looked like―she still remembered Ted. It was quite a thick folder as it contained numerous sheets of paper. I started to read the papers in the order they were placed. Hi Ted, It was raining on the day you walked out. Miserable, it looks like rain accompanies all separations. I can’t even call it separation, as you left without a word. Lora came in and asked me what was written in the letter I was holding in my hand. I said, “Ted’s gone”. She fell silent. In her angelic eyes, I saw sadness. She did not cry, her petite, narrow face battled with a wild storm of emotions. Then, she said quietly, “He’s gone for good.” She knew that you had gone forever this time. I nodded my head. I could not utter a word, I was afraid of my own voice. She never cried for you, Ted. You coached her how to handle her emotions. After a while, they called me from her school. They told me her marks had dropped; her eyes were red and teary, often. I explained that her father had left us. Her father, Ted. You (who would doubt it often), you are her father. There were too many discrepancies between us, Ted. When we got married, I was already pregnant. I conceived a child with you. When you left, I did not know whether that was better or worse for Lora. We were teaching her different things, constantly. The things that were valuable and honorable in my culture and tradition were unimportant and cheap to you. You had contempt for tenderness, calling it weakness; you mocked sincerity, calling it indiscretion. The things she had to hide from you she would whisper in my ear at night when I would come into her room to tuck her in. You would say, “Why are you covering her five times every night? You will spoil her, make her weak. Let her toughen up.” Why did you allow her to walk the streets barefoot in winter? It used to horrify me. It used to horrify me! You never asked me anything about my country nor about my past. Why? Were you afraid I might ask you the same questions? It all was below your interest, below your level. And so, my own past was suppressed in some strange liminal space where I had sealed the doors tightly shut. (They were sealed with padlocks, one thousand tons heavy, a thousand tons of silence, a thousand tons of concrete . . . with padlocks that seemed as if they would never be unlocked, or broken, with padlocks rusted like the ones in the stories of locked princesses . . . like the ones in the stories with a tragic end, because the main protagonist fell ill of a rare illness that came from a silence weighing one thousand tons . . .) But look, now I want to tell you: I had my country, and I had my past. Even though it looks like a dream now, dreamt long ago (which I dreamt when I was very young), but the one I still remember. You hid your past, for you were not proud of it; it was not ‘good enough’ for you; therefore, you narrated a different one. I could not talk about my past because you were not interested in it (as if it were shameful). But I was proud of it. My first and only love was a painful affair. I left because of him, believing (still too young to understand) that I would forget him. Six months have passed since you left. Lora has never asked about you. Since you left, she has been very quiet, her self-esteem has been very fragile. She has completely lost interest in the violin. When I ask her, what would make her happy, she only shrugs her shoulders and says, “I don’t know.”’ That’s how the first letter my mother wrote to Ted ended. I did not know were these copies of the letters she sent to Ted, or were they letters Ted never received? Letters never sent. My mother was unhappy. I understood that from the first letter. Anyway, I always felt her sadness. (She carried me inside her!). I believed that her sadness came from Ted’s departure and the difficulties of finding a publisher for her novels. But I was wrong. She was not sad because of Ted’s leaving. I was sad because of it. I felt that in these letters, all her life was contained―the history of her hometown, her family, and the history of one love. I put down that letter and with trembling fingers, I took another. I slid my fingers down the sheet of paper. All her letters were written on the same date―on the second day of June every year until the last one. Every year on my birthday, she wrote him a letter about me and about her. And about Dado – her first love. Why did she do it? Barbara was sad. Her sentences were heavily colored with cynicism. I never knew her being cynical. If she did not love him, why did she reproach his departure so much? Wounded ego? Or was it because he left her without any money? Or was she so sad because of me? Tears were rolling down my cheeks while I picked up a new letter. The letters danced in front of my teary eyes. BOOK INFO: AUTHOR: Branka Čubrilo TITLE: Requiem for Barbara GENRE: Literary Fiction, Drama, Family Literature RELEASE DATE: May 25, 2023 PUBLISHER: Speaking Volumes ISBN/ASIN: B0C6FSWFDD OUR RATING: 4 stars REVIEWED BY: V.B. “Can Do Indie Author” Guest Blogger/Reviewer Bio:  V.B. is an indie author who writes romance and Sci-Fi, and voraciously reads anything (with some limits). When she’s not reading and writing, she’s working a day job to pay for her truck habit and puttering around her house. Great! Thanks for this review, Virginia, and for stopping by the blog! :) Check out our latest Writing in the Modern Age blog post here. 
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Please welcome our guest reviewer today! Let’s see what she has to say. Take it away, V.B… Thank you! ♥ One Visit by George Veck  https://books2read.com/u/bMVAM8 Grit. Drugs. Sex. Muck. Bleak. Hopeless. Death. Prison. This book holds back no punches. What is life really like when chemicals overtake us? Dark and dreary, yet honest, this book shares the truth of the worst of us. I don’t see this as a crime story. It’s more like the dark side of humanity relating to drug use. The cops are as brutal as the “crooks.” And the brothers try, but cannot overcome their circumstances. I liked the ending, though. I hope Dazzler wins. I hope Frankie survives. But realistically, it’s death or worse coming for them. If Frankie doesn’t OD, he’ll have to get clean. Then what? What hope can he have? What about Dazzler? His options are fewer. If you’ve not been an addict, this book may scare you. If you know an addict or an abused person, this book may give you a taste of how bad things were for them. If you have survived something like this life, this book may give you a cathartic emotional journey, or even trigger you. Finally, this book is functionally hard to read. Welsh, slang, and Welsh-English don’t always make sense to this Yank. The POV shifts between all characters all the time. You may get lost or confused. However, if I were stoned out of my mind, life may feel that way to me, so I wonder if the author made it confusing on purpose. NOTE: I was provided a copy of this book in exchange for an honest review. I give this book 4 stars because it was viscerally hard to read. No one should live like this, but we do.  Ranking Vectors by Vecteezy. Book Blurb: In sleepy, rural North Wales, Frankie Gibbs, a recently laid off, aimless twenty-year-old on Universal Credit, wants nothing more than to keep his younger brother out of the care system. He single-handedly takes this upon himself while their alcoholic, cocaine-addict, single-parent father, Guy Gibbs, heaps misery on their lives through systematic abuse and his never-ending wild parties. After Guy is sent to prison, Frankie is coerced into opening his home to Justin, an acquaintance from his school days now turned drug dealer, while his own addiction and self-worth spiral beyond recognition. Trigger warnings: One Visit contains themes of mental and physical abuse, rape, and drug use. Universal Reader link: https://books2read.com/u/bMVAM8 What are other people saying about One Visit? “One Visit is an astonishing debut. It's raw, shocking, disturbing, insightful, and dark, pretty much from start to finish. There are flashes of wit but, in the main, it's a full-frontal assault with the truth of physical, psychological, social, and political deterioration in a beautiful part of Wales.” – Persiflage O'Brien, Amazon ''Thought-provoking, shocking, and engaging, author George Veck’s ‘One Visit’ is a must-read crime drama. The horrors that the protagonist and his brother endure as the narrative descends further and further into chaos hone in on the growing problem of drug abuse and violence as a whole around the world, and will speak to readers on a very distinct level. If you haven’t yet, be sure to grab your copy today!'' – author Anthony Avina’s blog “One Visit makes you think while you are reading. It opens your eyes because these characters grow on you and you hope that somehow Frankie and Dazzler will escape their life, while realizing they are too far in for help.” – Karen Lee, Goodreads “The author has passion, feelings, and descriptive writing to a tee.” – Mark Fearn, Goodreads “I really enjoyed the honest look into the life of drug users and the dealers. Yes, at times, it was a difficult read, but the uniqueness of both the plot and the characters kept me intrigued and wanting to read on. I thought the characters were well done. They felt realistic, and although there were some unlikeable characters, I couldn’t help but feel sorry for them.” – Books by Mani blog ''One Visit is a raw, uncompromising novel exploring a grimly compelling and contemporary world of drug addiction with its predators and prey. A brutally good read that’s well worth a look.” – Rose Auburn, Goodreads “There is a strong substance abuse theme throughout the book written in a real way. I recommend this book and approach it with an open mind as the author gives us a look at what many people face daily, the burden of addiction.” – Stuart Brkn Johns, Goodreads “Every little detail in the narrative, the use of slang native to drug users, (I was thankful for a few of the footnotes) all works to blend in this documentary-style book. As a reader, you are invested in a story but still remain a spectator. You can see what they cannot, frustrating as that might be, because you know the outcome of it all won't be sunshine and rainbows.” – Michelle, Goodreads Here’s an excerpt from the book… Frankie Gibbs' sunken eyes burst open. His underweight, sweaty midriff springs upwards and leans against the bed frame, panting and gasping for air. He's safe this time, although it takes him the thick side of sixty seconds to realize. He stretches over to his stale bedside half pint of water to sooth his parched throat. A desperate orange piss level of parched, amplified by shutting his stuffy room’s windows to both keep spiders and next door’s rotten month-old garden bin bag stench out. Dread seeps in, not helped by his first sight of the day, a plethora of grubby beer cans and pot noodle packets varying in age littering the dim room. To add insult to injury, a familiar warm sensation around his crotch area becomes increasingly apparent, a stinging itch on the thigh. An absolute disaster, the level of sting means only one thing, it happened early in the night. Leaving more time for the piss to penetrate the plastic protection sheet and seep into the springy mattress. A peak under the covers at his drenched Primark pajama bottoms confirms all suspicions, it's happened again. Undoubtedly, the chugging of eight pint cans of Galleryx lager to get through a Film4 Steven Seagal marathon headlined by 'On Deadly Ground' played its part. Frankie gazes over to the corner of the room and grimaces, his clean sheet pile's as bare as his stomach. Barring a miraculous end to his father Guy Gibbs' five-year housework hiatus, it'll be a sheetless night tonight. Frankie's unproductive, leisurely bedroom-bound night on the piss all but guarantees that no washing was done. He strips the sheets off the bed so roughly that it shreds down the seam. About time one would say, given its ancient cult status within the family after being passed through two generations. But with a three week wait until his next universal credit payment and left down to one currently dirty sheet, it couldn't have happened at a worse time. Frankie wraps the manky sheets forcefully into a ball and heads authoritatively for the bathroom. A door downstairs clatters and he freezes in the hallway, the location of a catalogue of septic foot wounds caused by the perilously high pointing nails sticking out of the uneven floorboard. Nobody comes up the stairs, all clear. He storms for the bathroom. Off come the damp pyjamas, but his trousers, seemingly glued to his legs, prove far from a breeze to rip off. Stuffed in head first with all of his might, the dirty laundry initially fits in the washing basket. But after Frankie collapses onto the shower cubicle floor without noticing, it slowly expands and ends up hanging out of the open lid, dripping with piss and sweat. He stuffs his head into his hands as tears trail between his fingers. An unnerving racket from the disastrously unsafe shower fitting, that's at least ten years overdue for replacing ensures his anonymity in the paper thin walled terraced house where most is heard between rooms. Horizontal fresh razor wounds on his right shoulder partially open up and ooze out a touch of blood. Meters away down in the living room, Frankie's long-time friend Alfie Fenner stands leaning his elbow on an enormous snooker cue case. Caked in Dax wax, with slicked back hair and wearing a grey suit jacket, he's way out of place in these most unglamorous of surroundings, the presentability of which isn't helped by the unofficial house servant’s self-imposed night off on the piss. Guy's stain-ridden high vis jacket, sported at last night’s heavy pound-a-pint session down at the local, is of stark contrast and befitting to the houses disarray. His supervisor role on a building site, which he's casually two hours late for today, allows him the privilege of washing it as he feels. Guy's youngest son Dazzler makes the most of his teacher shortage enforced half school day by gloomily pursuing Premier League and European glory with Liverpool on Fifa career mode. An epic challenge given his recent ascent in game difficulty up to legendary. ''Space with us, should you be after some proper match practice!'' Guy proposes. ''Full squad I thought?'' Alfie mutters dismissively. ''I'll sack any of the ten journeyman fucks on the squad off, any of them!'' Guy passionately declares in his desperation to sign Alfie, an elite player at local level, up for the pool team that he captains. ''Tuck, tuck, all fucking night! All you past it never had it mugs do.'' Alfie mockingly imitates the delicate type of shot required for tucking someone up. ''You haven't a scooby of our impenetrable dominance in the Bangor league.'' "Maybe if the standard was in the slightest bit stimulating.'' With respect to the Bangor pool league, its standard proves a stimulating challenge to those outside of the sport’s professional ranks. Boasting a plethora of international and county level players, its one frame shoot-out format ensures a challenge for any player to remain unbeaten over an entire twenty match season. Fearing his reputation as a budding professional snooker player will bring out the best in his opponents, Alfie finds it safer to pretend he's above that level. ''Div one champions last year, Fenner boy, I'll have you know.'' Guy proudly reminds Alfie of the pinnacle of his eleven years as captain. ''Not just on about the pool though, am I, rammed full of janky munters that club of yours.'' ''No way! More student p*ssy down there on a Wednesday than you could fucking fathom.'' Indeed, it is a hot spot for 'student p*ssy', not that Guy stands even the slightest chance of pulling a single one of them, which consecutive calamitous failed attempts has proven. Despite the fortune of a relatively handsome face and strapping physique, Alfie's dirth of pulling power, subsequent inferiority complex, and anger towards women has lately developed into a baseline curiosity in the incel community. ''Oh, right yeah, let's say it is. Why then is it you skulk off to Vietnam, fucking flower seeking.'' Alfie jabs Guy in the crotch with his cue case. ''That grubby little chode of yours senseless, for your entire month of paid holiday, every bastard year?'' Guy's vigor diminishes, all but crushed by the damning summary of his rigid optimization of leisure and free time. ''Yeah well, that's not all I do out there, is it?'' Other than the hotel’s two-star hygiene rated kitchens all-you-can-eat buffet, where he stocks up on energy for the following day’s conquests, it is. ''Won't mind taking Dazzler with you then?'' Alfie optimistically asks. Guy shudders at the mere thought. Brothels that know him on first name terms, narrowed down to his favorite three that he rotates for daily visits on his trips, wouldn’t let the boy through the front door, not like the unregulated good old days. ''Fearful all the birds will have me instead.'' Dazzler sarcastically chimes in without taking his eyes off a crucial Fifa EFL cup semifinal clash with Huddersfield that he holds a slender one nil lead in. Deep down, Guy knows his womanizing peak was over at nineteen after putting on four pounds of flab following a futile attempt to quit his half gram a day cocaine habit. ''D'you think the other reason I piss off for is?'' Alfie fails miserably to restrain the urge to groan. ''Frankie stuck here babysitting again!'' That puts any late night best of nineteen frame slogs, an inevitable ten nil win for Alfie more often than not, out of the question for an entire month. Not just any month, but the last month of practice before his first pop at snookers Q school. A grueling tournament held once a year, that's the only gateway into the professional ranks. It has been assumed that Frankie will serve as his semi willing full time practice partner, should he pull Q school off against the odds. A decision in itself that puts Alfie's slim chances of sustained success into peril, given Frankie's comparatively lackluster ability. BOOK INFO: AUTHOR: George Veck TITLE: One Visit GENRE: New Adult, Crime Drama RELEASE DATE: November 6, 2022 PUBLISHER: Indie Published ISBN/ASIN: B0BLMDGLQD OUR RATING: 4 stars REVIEWED BY: V.B. “Can Do Indie Author” Guest Blogger/Reviewer Bio:  V.B. is an indie author who writes romance and Sci Fi, and voraciously reads anything (with some limits). When she’s not reading and writing, she’s working a day job to pay for her truck habit and puttering around her house. Awesome. Thanks for this review, Virginia, and for stopping by the blog! :) Check out our latest Writing in the Modern Age blog post here.  What and Why Do I Write: a guest post by Branka Čubrilo On June 17, 2023, in a spacious and architecturally appealing rooftop ambience of Mosman’s Fernery function room (Sydney, Australia), I had for the third time (over a period of 23 years) a book launch for my novel, Requiem for Barbara, published in May 2023 by my American publisher, Speaking Volumes. The event was well attended by about 60-70 people, just the right number to completely fill the space. The special honor this time was to be introduced to the crowd full of anticipation by my one and only daughter Althea. It was a three-hour event, and in her speech, Althea explained her experiences of living and understanding a mother who is an author. She detailed the differences of comprehension from a child, to her adolescence and finally adulthood. For me, I believe for all present alike, it was a revealing, touching, and humorous account. After her speech, she read the poem “Barbara” by Jacques Prévert, accompanied by classical guitar, “Preludio de Adios” by Alfonso Montes. This piece of music was chosen by the performing guitarist Su Keong, because he said, “It is a sad and nostalgic composition by Montes written at the time he defected from Venezuela to Germany”. The guitarist, Su Keong, found it “to be the appropriate piece for the ‘Requiem’ title theme of the book”. For the occasion, I wrote a speech, my address to the audience to make them understand what I write, why I write, and what writing means to me or to a writer in general. I’d like to share this speech with a wider audience because I received many congratulations for it, learning from the audience that this speech might interest and enlighten many... Very often, in interviews or privately, I get asked - what do I write about? Or what is my genre? I don’t have a genre. I write about life. How do you deal with what you’ve been dealt by life? Especially, if you have been dealt a mess. Mess varies from person to person, from culture to culture, from family to family. So, the question is - what do we do about it, if the only freedom we have is what we do with the life and the mess we were born into?  Photo by Timon Studler on Unsplash. I develop well-structured, many-layered characters who grapple with the big and small questions of life. They are always in search of meaning, of reason, love, beauty, in search of home and ultimately of God. I write about love, but I don’t write love stories. I write about human suffering, about wars, migrations, broken homes, broken hearts, and broken countries. About broken souls and broken promises. I am concerned with the big questions of human existence - the meaning of suffering; about pride, overzealous and unnecessary national pride that often leads people astray; about freedom, the shadow self and all of the shades in between two extreme emotions. My characters are lost, often in moral dilemmas during various life crises, searching for truth. I was, and I am a person, a writer who has always been in search of that elusive bird, the Truth - it can show us how insufficient our knowledge is, be it academic knowledge, intuitive or spiritual. We are always floating on the surface of the truth, a partial truth learned in our family, educational institutions, or through mainstream media. Truth is elsewhere - that is the reason why we can’t grasp the meaning of complex but simple questions as well. My interests are psychology, though not popular psychology of the New Age, but rather my amazement with what lies deep down in the human psyche that governs our behavior, our choices, and ultimately our deeds that we are not proud of; then my interest lies in philosophy, not particularly of any philosophical school, but rather the personal philosophy of characters that they develop over the course of their lives; and my personal interest lies in exploring religion, Christianity, and often my characters grapple with never reaching the truth about the existence of a benevolent being that runs the universe or their small lives. I write how much we need love, yet how elusive this notion is, how it is hiding from us, how it is leading us through mud and thorns – per aspera ad astra - in the simple human need and wish for always more -- love. Love, such a desirable companion, shows its face and then it hides, dragging you through tremendous experiences and the sharpest pains to show you that it needs a life-long dedication to master the art of loving. How can we find and keep love when we are unable to participate honestly and without fear? How? If I talk about suffering, how many people would lift their hand up if I asked them - have they suffered in their lives any kind of heartache, hardship, loss, depression, et cetera?  Photo by Pure Julia on Unsplash.  Photo by Simran Sood on Unsplash. Unfortunately, life is about suffering, about search, about growth. Look, I don’t want to scare you, to put you off, believing that I am a depressing writer who like a vivisector with a sharp razor cuts through life’s miseries. I show life in all its glory: the bad and the beautiful. Therefore, I write about kindness, where it can take you if you are committed to doing noble deeds; I write about lost but found happiness, even when the tunnel looks like a never-ending black hole. I write about random, destiny orchestrated, encounters which change one’s life. I write about injustice and justice. I write about beauty, governed from my inner need for beautiful art, beautiful scenery, or the beauty of someone’s soul or character. I don’t paint black and white pictures, I always look for balance in my life and in my writing. I aim to be an objective observer.  Image by John Hain from Pixabay. I observe people, listen attentively to conversations. I soak the atmosphere of a place, of a mentality, observing everything around me, thirsty to know and to use all of my feelings to enrich my mind, hence, to enrich minds and souls of my characters when I sit at my laptop for a new story. I write about you. My readers find themselves in my characters, in certain situations. In difficult times, they get hope, they laugh and cry with my characters, and I write for me, too, in order to understand my inner world better. I write about human goodness, advancement, courage, hope and redemption. I impart hope and faith. I stir emotions, so you cry and you fear my characters, you pray and laugh with me.  Photo by Priscilla Du Preez on Unsplash. I like my brutes, the horrible characters, the ones that you dislike (perhaps just because they have some hidden traits of your own character, so they irritate you). They commit unimaginable deeds, war crimes, their lessons bitter and hard, but eventually justice comes and you sigh the sigh of relief, promising yourself that you won’t ever again have a certain thought, deed or, shall I say, a misdeed. Usually, my leading female characters are physically beautiful women; I show the price of female beauty, the suffering of beauty, not the shallowness of it. My female characters are as well in constant search - with the need to better themselves, they study life through different lessons, through shallow clichés of the fashion world, through the New Age movement, through too many lovers, through art, or again, simply through personal suffering. Many of my female characters are sharp and self-sufficient women, while those that are not yet, are subconsciously yearning to be ‘elsewhere’ or someone better to achieve what they ultimately will become.  Photo by Richard Jaimes on Unsplash. In my short stories, I introduce humorous, spontaneous larrikins, naïve or care-free people who visit my vignettes just to make you laugh, or open your mouth wide with astonishment with how direct, rude, or quirky the human mind and behavior can be. Therefore, I cover a variety of characters, in different lands, of different nationalities, showing that nationality or culture doesn’t necessarily form the character, the good and the evil, kindness or rudeness, that all human characteristics and deeds belong to all of us, that our creator mixed and spread us equally on this earth in His need to encourage humans for the betterment of oneself and of society as such. And let me finish now with a few more words about the book we are launching, as it has a long life and history. https://books2read.com/u/47dxqA I published Requiem for Barbara a long time ago. Precisely 23 years ago, in 2000 in my native country of Croatia. The book received good reviews and an interested readership; the Ministry of Education purchased it and placed the book in all libraries across the country. The more people that read it, the more often I was asked if there were hidden parts of my own life embedded within the story. People who know me well - my family and close friends - were all convinced that it was a loose memoir about my life. A life that I was in fact living on another continent and feeling all the struggles as a foreigner and young, unknown writer, building their life from scratch. It is an elegy, a sad story about a young female writer who struggles as a single mother in Sydney, without having any kind of help or any family. And after the heavy burden of trying and unfavorable circumstances, she breaks down and ultimately falls terminally ill. When I was writing the story, I was absolutely unaware that a similar destiny was going to befall me. Barbara was a neurotic, artistic woman who utterly adored her daughter; she led a very hermetic life where she never let other people participate. When people used to tell me that I was Barbara, that they could recognize me in her every word, or every deed or emotion, I would just shrug my shoulders, saying, “No, I am not Barbara, she is just a character who happens to be a sensitive writer locked in her own world.” I think a writer writes about experiences they have lived through and people they have encountered, as this is the ground where they feel the most familiar, hence the most competent. Even when the story is set elsewhere, or in a different historical period, the characters will still have traits of the writer or some of their experiences – real experiences or psychological structures in their mind. The majority of readers had believed that it was my own story, many even calling me Barbara, but with the passage of time the book slowly went into history, and I was called by the various names of my other female characters. In 2020, exactly 20 years after the first publication of Requiem for Barbara, I got asked to publish it again in a different language, in a different country, so, the book was published in Belgrade, Serbia. My friends and acquaintances who read Requiem for Barbara 20 years ago, re-read the book, and I received emails or messages from people asking the same question: “When are you going to translate this book into English?”  Photo by Caleb George on Unsplash. I was never sure if I wanted to translate it, as this story somehow always brought me a profound sadness, for it reflected a time of my life when I was living under lots of emotional stress and adversity. Besides, I had the feeling that I had finished all my dealings with this story and with Barbara herself. But she was a part of me, part of my psyche for many years, and I understood that she needed to live again through new readership. I understood that she was destined to be published and re-published over and over and get a new audience, as if she would gain a new life, a prolonged one, or that she yearned to live forever accessible to many people, in many languages. In this elegy of mine, each chapter starts with a stanza from the poem ‘Barbara’ by Jacques Prévert, setting the atmosphere where Barbara shows parts of her personality to the reader - being a writer herself, she is a poetic, other-worldly soul who struggles with everyday living in a common world, among the people who don’t have the time to listen to the song of her soul nor hear verses of her poetry. The rest you will find in the book that has been published for the third time, and hopefully many more times in many more languages. Guest Blogger Bio  Branka Čubrilo is an international author of eight novels and two short story collections. Branka has lived in Australia, Spain, and Croatia, and has also worked as a radio producer and presenter on SBS Australia, as well as working as an interpreter and translator of several languages. Branka's latest book, Requiem for Barbara, was published in May 2023. Branka's articles and essays and short stories have been published in many online and print magazines. Two years ago, Branka was named one of the top ten writers of literary fiction by her American colleagues in a literary magazine run by the author Caleb Pirtle. All of Branka Čubrilo's work is available at Barnes and Noble, Amazon, both in ebook and print editions. Branka's novels published in English include: The Mosaic of the Broken Soul, Flume - The Lost River, Dethroned, Three to Tango & Other Stories, and Requiem for Barbara. Links https://speakingvolumes.us/author/branka-cubrilo/ https://www.amazon.com/stores/Branka-Cubrilo/author/B0052Y00I6 https://medium.com/@brankacubrilo https://www.instagram.com/branka_cubrilo_author/?hl=en https://www.youtube.com/@brankacubrilo4072 Check out our latest Writing in the Modern Age post here.  Please welcome our guest reviewer today! Let’s see what she has to say. Take it away, Virginia… Thank you! ♥ The Me Too Girl by Lance and James Morcan  https://books2read.com/u/b5WWp6 This is an intense and short read that reflects the #MeToo moment. I recommend it to those who need to better understand those affected by sexual abuse or for those who are suffering or have suffered sexual abuse. It’s especially helpful to help those not abused to better understand some victims’ issues dealing with abusers who have almost omnipotent power over them. Too many victims have no hope or alternative of something else outside or beyond their abusive situation. It was awesome to experience how Suzie found some other way than giving in. There should always be a way out, an alternative, a “something better than this.” Unfortunately, this is not always possible. But Suzie found a way, even using new allies. Though it would have been nice for this to be a true story, this book had to be fiction, because few victims achieve the freedom and peace that Suzie did. This story should remind us all to notice better those around us, to reach out and actually assist those who have no advocate, and to stop abusers whenever they are found. I’m fine with the story being short. Too long or more detail could traumatize readers, especially ones who have lived a life like Suzie’s. The only downside of this book for me was that I wondered whether the authors were trying to advocate for victims or were trying to capitalize on a hot topic at the time. NOTE: I was provided a copy of this book in exchange for an honest review. I give this book 4 stars because the MC overcame abuses and addictions that destroy more humans than not.  Ranking Vectors by Vecteezy. Book Blurb: Young Los Angeles public relations exec Suzie Fox is being blackmailed for sex by a bad cop, a senior officer of the LAPD no less. Suzie fights back the only way she knows how, and, in the process, unwittingly becomes a beacon, a shining light, for America's Me Too movement and for abused women everywhere. But will justice be served? Universal Reader link: https://books2read.com/u/b5WWp6 Here’s an excerpt from the book… The first I became aware he was waiting for me was when I crossed the street. I was about to enter the building when the patrol car’s passenger door opened and the passenger stepped out, blocking my path. I recognized him immediately despite the fact last time I saw him he wore the uniform of a police officer. Holy shit! Hector Williams, or Heck to his associates, was the LAPD’s Deputy Chief of Police. He was also kind of hard to forget. A hulking specimen, the forty-nine-year-old Williams stood six foot six and towered over all but a rare few of the passersby currently using the sidewalk outside my apartment. That wasn’t the main reason I remembered Deputy Chief Williams, however. We had a history of sorts. A history I’d rather forget. Williams smiled at me as he ran his eyes over my body and made no attempt to hide the fact he liked what he saw. His was a cruel smile and there was no affection in those cold, gray eyes. Glancing at the security camera above the building’s entrance, he smiled again as he flashed his ID card and, turning his face away from the camera, he said, “Hey little Suzie, remember me? I’m now Deputy Chief Hector Williams.” I shuddered involuntarily. I remember you alright. “What the hell do you want?” “Now, is that any way to greet ol’ Heck?” Williams took me gently but firmly by the arm and escorted me a little way along the sidewalk. Whether it was because of the presence of the security camera or the close proximity of his fellow officer in the nearby patrol car I wasn’t sure. Knowing him, it was probably because of both of those things. As we walked, my mind was racing. When I’d last seen Williams I’d been using another name and residing elsewhere in this city – in Venice, to be precise. That was three or four years ago now. Since then, I’d adopted a complete change of lifestyle, reverted to using my real name and relocated to new premises at least three times. In doing so, I believed I’d never see the man again. At least I prayed I’d never see him again. How in God’s name did you find me, Hector? BOOK INFO: AUTHOR: Lance and James Morcan TITLE: The Me Too Girl GENRE: Crime Drama RELEASE DATE: November 5, 2019 PUBLISHER: Sterling Gate Books ISBN/ASIN: B08137BDGH OUR RATING: 4 Stars REVIEWED BY: V.B. “Can Do Indie Author” Guest Blogger/Reviewer Bio:  VB is an indie author who writes romance and Sci Fi and voraciously reads anything (with some limits). When she’s not reading and writing, she’s working a day job to pay for her truck habit and puttering around her house. Awesome. Thanks for this, V.B., and for stopping by the blog! :)  Hi, readers! We have a real treat in store for you today, a spotlight on a book by Emilia Ares, a talented author!
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