Book Review: The Werewolf’s Guide to Life: A Manual for the Newly Bitten

/ Devon L. Miller / 2 Comments

The Werewolf’s Guide to Life: A Manual for the Newly Bitten by Ritch Duncan and Bob Powers, with illustrations by Emily Flake, is easily the most fun book I’ve read in quite some time.  Written in the same spirit as The Zombie Survival Guide: Complete Protection from the Living Dead (by Max Brooks), The Werewolf’s Guide to Life is a tongue in cheek manual to help new lycanthropes (werewolves) survive their first few moons (transformations).

Not lacking in dark humor, the book addresses topics such as how lycanthropes should lock themselves away during their moons, what they should do if they get loose and turn or kill someone (because, let’s face it, it’s going to happen), and why lycanthrope suicide is not an option.

If you’ve ever sat and wondered, “Well what if…” when it comes to the life of a werewolf, this book will answer every question you’ve ever had and a few you probably didn’t in a way that will make you howl with laughter.

Yes, I know that last line was cheesy.  Feel free to have some wine with it.

While thoughtfully and thoroughly written, The Werewolf’s Guide to Life is a quick and easy read, perfect for your daily lunch breaks or a road trip (as the passenger, of course!).  I even enjoyed a few chapters before bed!

If you’ve read or are reading this book, feel free to add to this review in the comments.

Happy reading!

The Death of Monte: A Glimpse Into the American Love Affair with the Automobile

/ Devon L. Miller / Leave a comment

My husband’s 1998 Chevy Monte Carlo, which we less-than-creatively called Monte, died in the noble pursuit of alcohol on Sunday evening.  We wanted wine with dinner, but missed the 5:00pm cutoff to buy in Connecticut on a Sunday, so we crossed the border to Rhode Island.

As short as the trip was, it was further than we should have dared go in Monte, and as we were heading north on I-95, we noticed a funny sound and smell.  This wasn’t new for Monte.  We had known for a long time that she wasn’t going to get through another inspection.  We suspected that if we took her to a garage to get one problem fixed, no mechanic in his (or her) right mind was going to allow us to take her back off the lot until thousands of dollars of other truly necessary work was done—way more work than the car was worth monetarily.  I had often said that I felt bad for even putting the key in the ignition any longer.  If she had been a human, she would have been allowed to retire ages ago.  But Joe, my husband, faithfully did tune-ups, changed brakes, and took care of any vehicular ailment he could.  He assured me that smells and sounds are common to old cars and was confident he could squeeze another 30,000 miles out of her.  But as the noise got louder and the smell got stronger, I saw his confidence wane.  (He later admitted to me that he knew that this was the proverbial “it” on the highway, but didn’t say anything in an effort not to worry me.)

We purchased our libations and came out to start the car.  She coughed a puff of smoke in protest, and wouldn’t start.  It was the one day neither of us brought our cell phones because it was supposed to be a short trip, so Joe disappeared into the pizza shop beside the package store to call AAA.

I knew this was going to be tough on Joe; he loved that car.  He had purchased her while he was in the Navy and he and Monte had done a couple of cross-country trips together.  But what I hadn’t expected, as I sat on a nearby boulder staring at Monte’s hood, was that my own eyes were growing misty.  I had underestimated how much I loved that car.  I got off the boulder, kissed Monte’s hood, and allowed my memories—and yes, even a couple of tears—to flow.

Monte is partially responsible for me falling in love with Joe to begin with.  Back when we had just started dating, I called Joe one night to see if he wanted to hang out.  He said that he would love to, but he had to finish some work on his car first.  In my boredom, I asked if he would mind if I hung out with him until he was finished. I could stand to learn a thing or two about car maintenance anyway. He told me that of course he didn’t mind, and he was out back.  He’d be the legs sticking out from under the black Monte Carlo.

As I came around the corner, I saw the legs.  I announced my arrival and Joe scooted out.  Sweat poured off of him leaving streaks in the grease on his skin as he wielded a wrench, or some such tool, and cursed in frustration.  It was like Cupid had shot me all over again!  Maybe it’s the Pennsylvania redneck in me, but damn if there isn’t something about a man working on his car that just makes me grin all over!  He had me at, “Can’t get this f*cking bolt loose!”

Joe and I satisfied one of my greatest fantasies in that car.  I won’t say what it was because, much like Monte’s final road days, it may have actually been illegal, but we were “dumb kids” of 29 and 30 so give us a break.

I got my second speeding ticket (but the first in over ten years) to Bon Jovi’s “Blaze of Glory” in that car.  But Monte didn’t die in a blaze of glory.  She died with a sad sputter, begging us not to try and start her again.  She didn’t die on the interstate.  She died in a parking lot, telling us that this was as far as she could go.  We were safe.  We were near phones.  What more could we have asked of her?

Monte made trips she shouldn’t have made.  She saved us when newer, shinier cars weren’t up for the job.  She was Miss Kitty with a shotgun and a deadly aim from the second story window, saving the hero during the Old West shoot out, with nothing but a smile, a nod, and a request for more oil—because the oil leaked.

Later, as I sat there sipping my wine with dinner, it felt wrong.  I should have been drinking whiskey.  Monte was a tough old broad and if she had been human, whiskey would have been her drink.  So, we took the little bottle of whiskey from the counter, poured two shots and had a drink to her.  What a car!

How much more proof do you need that we Americans love our cars?

We love freedom and a car is more than just a symbol of that freedom. If we’re willing to make the drive, the car will get us there in comfort, with air conditioning and seats that recline.  The United States of America is a huge country, and that’s why we have famous highways, and humble truck stops that become famous.  It’s part of why we love the freaking cheeseburger!  It’s quick, it’s easy, it’s handheld, and if a fast food restaurant can do it right, a roadside joint can do it better!  The car is a huge part of America the Beautiful in the modern age. And Monte was one of the best.

*Disclaimer: this is not an endorsement of Chevrolet.  Everyone knows I’m a Dodge girl!  But damn…I loved that Chevy!

Rest in Peace, Monte.

Big Blue

/ Devon L. Miller / Leave a comment

I like to cook. Organizing and laying out ingredients in order of use helps me organize my thoughts. It also helps me quiet all the rest of the stuff going on in my brain long enough to reflect on things that might otherwise have gone unnoticed.

As I was browning meat for my special lasagna the other day in preparation for a visit from my dear sister-in-law, I started thinking about family, traditions, and meals cooked with love. Then suddenly, as silly as it may seem in comparison, it occurred to me how much I love the pan I was using.

I call the pan Big Blue. It is the only cooking utensil we have that has a name. The big blue frying pan had been a wedding present to my parents and is years older than me. It was passed down to me many moons ago when my parents did a kitchen upgrade and I moved into my first apartment.

Big Blue has certainly seen better days. Its bottom is a little warped. Nearly forty years worth of burn marks and stains mar the outside and make me wonder how bright the blue had been when the pan was new. The lid is missing its handle. Of course, we still use the lid. We just use a fork and an oven mitt to maneuver it.

In spite of all its dings, dents, and aesthetic shortcomings, it’s still often times the best pan for the job. No, I wouldn’t want to make an omelet in it, but it’s perfect for dishes like beef stroganoff, mashed potato pancakes, and—if I’m really flipping off my diet—fried chicken.

Big Blue is deep and weighs a ton. If it’s filled with sauce, I have to use two hands to hold it even remotely steady. And washing it—ugh! I don’t even want to think about that.

What I love to think about is all the meals over the years that had been prepared with love and care in that pan. My mother taught me to make beef stroganoff in it. I use it to make my meat sauce for my special lasagna. The first meal I ever made for my husband (while we were still dating) was made using Big Blue.

That pan made the food that made the memories. “Better”, lighter weight and non-stick coated pans will come and go—and they do. But I’ll never give up Big Blue.

I’m back

/ Devon L. Miller / 1 Comment

After much thought, I have decided to start paying attention to my blog again.  By “much thought” I mean that as I was sitting at my desk in my office today, truly sipping my coffee for once since I had already burned my tongue twice, I thought, Hmm, a writer should actually be accused of writing something at some point.  Considering myself on indefinite hiatus from the paid blogging in which I’d been dabbling, it took me all of ten seconds to decide to dust off the old WordPress blog. It took 2 minutes of my lunch break to reset my forgotten password, and then it was just a matter of getting through the day and my commute home. Images of myself curled up on the couch with my laptop, my creativity, and a cup of tea kept poking me no matter how hard I tried to concentrate on site analytics.

Okay, so that’s not a lot of thought at all.  What I have been thinking a lot about lately is the fact that I haven’t produced anything.  At least nothing more than a few scribbles on an errant napkin (which I inevitably lose), or a few chicken scratch notes in the ol’ moleskine that don’t mean squat anymore. Seriously, what in the hell did I mean when I scribbled “couple fight, car, end of”?  I have no idea, but the list of Motown songs to add to my iTunes library on the opposite page reminds me that I still don’t have Jackie Wilson’s “(Your Love Keeps Lifting Me) Higher and Higher” on my iPod.

I can blame procrastination for the state of my playlist, but believe it or not, procrastination is not to blame for my inability to produce fresh, engaging works of written art.

Quite simply, my outlook on life has changed.   Did you know it’s a lot easier to write dark fiction when you’re miserable and every other text, tweet, or status update you post includes an “FML”?  Crawling out of bed every morning might be a herculean feat, but writing a short story about blood, sweat, and misery? Piece of cake.

I’m not unhappy that my life isn’t unhappy. There is a limit to even my complaining, and I really did always hope I’d end up happy.  But where does that leave my writing? I still love dark fiction.  It’s still what I prefer to read. The genre is constantly evolving.  Which monster is hot this week?  Which fairy tale do we want to retell this month? Wait…vampires are out now? You get the picture. Keeping up with reading dark fiction is a bloody good time for me. And so, I feel the need to press on with writing it.

But it’s different now.  I’m sickeningly in love with my husband.  I enjoy my paid gig.  And speaking of paid, my bills are.  I live near the beach…and I just can’t be sad on the beach. The point is that I kind of feel bad for killing off the cute girl in the opening scene now that I know life doesn’t inevitably suck in the end anyway. It still might suck, but it doesn’t have to.

So, it’s time to expand my horizons.  There are some new scribbles in the moleskine that I have to get into a more legible format before I forget what “feathers in the breeze” means.

And, of course, I’m here to blog again.