Skip to main content

The Language of Secrets By Dianne Dixon

The Language of Secrets Handsome green eyed Justin Fisher who is the manager of a posh hotel has a troubled past that intereferes
with the life he's trying to build with his wife Amy and his son Zach.  He hasn't seen his parents or his sisters
in awhile.  He goes back to his parents house on Lima street only to find it's been sold and to add insult to injury his parents are dead.  Just when you think it can't get worse he finds another grave next to his parents' grave with his name on it from 1975!  I found myself sympathetic to Justin's character intially especially since
the wife Amy wasn't supportive at all,she came across as someone who has led a pampered existence her
husband's shocking discoveries were treated as a huge inconvience.  I personally would've liked to see more
about there son Zack, but because we have alot of flashbacks to 1974 to try to understand  how Justin got to this point I went with it.  The imagery started to fall pretty flat early on,but read it anyway because I was curious(not totally convinced but still wanting to know how all this was going to fit together).  I saw alot of potential in the beginning, but the biggest problem I had was the story opened with the premise that Justin hadn't seen his family in 10 years,Justin tried to reach out to his"estranged" sister but not only does she not know who he is
she wants him off her property, it's not until much later in the book that you find out that he hadn't seen them
in 30 years and because of trauma he managed to block out 20-25 years!   The author's style of writing was very unimaginitive.  I can only give it 1 out of 5 stars


   I would like to thank Doubleday Publishing for giving me an opportunity to review this book

Comments

Popular posts from this blog

Poem: In Texas Grass by Quincy Troupe

All along the rail
                                road tracks of texas
                               old train cars lay
                               rusted &overturned
                              like new african governments
                             long forgotten by the people
                              who built & rode them
                                till they couldn't run no more,
                              they remind me of old race horses
                             who've been put out to pasture
                            amongst the weeds
                            rain sleet &snow
                            till they die,rot away
                            like photos fading
                           in grandma's picture book,
                         of old black men in mississippi/texas
                         who sit on dilapidated porches,
                        that fall away
                       like dead man'…

The Speed of Belief by Tracy K Smith (poem)

I didn't want to wait on my knees
In a room made quiet by waiting. A room where we'd listen for the rise
Of breath, the burble in his throat. I didn't want the orchids or the trays
Of food meant to fortify that silence, Or to pray for him to stay or to go then
Finally toward that ecstatic light I didn't want to believe
What we believe in those rooms: That we are blessed, letting go,
Letting someone, anyone, Drag open the drapes and heave us Bak into our blinding, bright lives When your own sweet father died You woke before first light And ate half a plate of eggs and grits, And Drank a glass of milk. After  you'd left, I sat in your place And finished  the toast bits with jam And the cold eggs, the thick bacon Flanged in fat , savoring the taste. Then I slept, too young to know how narrow And grave the road before you seemed--- All the houses zipped tight , the night's Few clouds muddy as cold coffee. You stayed gone a week, and who were we Without your clean p…

My Arkansas by Maya Angelou

There is a deep brooding
                             in Arkansas
                            Old crimes like moss pend
                           from poplar trees.
                           The sullen earth
                           is much too
                          red for comfort.
                          Sunrise seems to hesitate
                           and in that second
                           lose its
                           incandescent aim,and
                          dusk no more shadows
                           than the noon.
                           The past is brighter yet.

                          Old hates and
                          ante-bellum lace,are rent
                          but not discarded.
                          Today is yet to come
                           in Arkansas.
                           it writhes. It writhes in awful brooding.