Saturday, July 5, 2025

Spotlight of Reports of His Death Have Been Greatly Exaggerated by James Goodhand


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REPORTS OF HIS DEATH HAVE BEEN GREATLY EXAGGERATED
JAMES GOODHAND
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ALL INFORMATION IN THIS POST IS COURTESY OF DIANA FRANCO| PUBLICITY | HARPER COLLINS PUBLISHERS | HANOVER SQUARE PRESS/PARK ROW BOOKS| MIRA | GRAYDON HOUSE | CANARY STREET PRESS
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Due to a case of mistaken identity, everyone believes Ray Thorns to be dead while he is still very much alive. 

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July 1, 2025

Trade Paperback

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ABOUT REPORTS OF HIS DEATH HAVE BEEN GREATLY EXAGGERATED:

In the aftermath, he’s forced to reflect on the impact he’s had on the world and those closest to him in this heartbreakingly beautiful look at life and what we would all do if given a second chance, for fans of Dead Poets Society and It’s a Wonderful Life and readers of Fredrick Backman.

A lifetime ago, Ray “Spike” Thorns was a well-regarded caretaker on a boarding school’s grounds.

These days, he lives the life of a recluse in a house rammed with hoarded junk, alone and disconnected from family or anyone he might have at one time considered a friend.

When his next-door neighbor drops dead on Spike’s doorstep, a case of mistaken identity ensues: according to the police, the hospital, the doctors—everyone—Spike is dead. 

Spike wants to correct the mistake, really he does, but when confronted with those who knew him best, he hesitates, forced to face whatever impression he’s left on the world. 

It’s a discovery that brings him up close to ghosts from his past, and to the only woman he ever loved.

Could it be that in coming face to face with his own demise, Spike is able to really live again? 

And will he be able to put things straight before the inevitable happens—his own funeral?

This is the best kind of feel-good fiction: it’s deeply affecting but full of clever mishaps and enough laughs along the way. 

It takes the message from Dead Poets Society and mixes it with the tragedy of It’s A Wonderful Life and tops it off with an ultimately loveable guy like in A Man Called Ove. 

The result is a heartbreakingly beautiful look at life and what we would all do if given a second chance.

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FIRST FEW PAGES OF REPORTS OF HIS DEATH HAVE BEEN GREATLY EXAGGERATED:

 Tuesday 

There was nothing of note about the gentleman at my front door that evening to suggest he would drop dead in little over an hour. My instinct had been to ignore the doorbell altogether. All I really wanted was to be left to my own devices. ‘Be a pal, would you, Ron?’ the gentleman said. In one hand he rocked a tartan Thermos side to side. With the other he pinched the collar of his mackintosh tight as an icy wind whipped along the street, sweeping newly spread salt to the kerb. Late March, but not yet a whiff of spring. ‘Been three days without the electric,’ he told me. ‘Would you believe it? If you’d be so kind, Ron?’ I held the door open no more than was necessary, my head sandwiched between it and the jamb. ‘Some hot water?’ I asked. I should have taken this opportunity to mention that my name is in fact Ray, not Ron, but I let the matter lie, accepting that— chance missed—I’d be misnamed for the duration. He and I had known each other, in passing, for twenty years or more. His name was Barry Detmer. He lived not-quite-opposite in the groundfloor flat with the gaffer-taped letterbox and the budgerigar cage in the window. We exchanged pleasantries here and there and had spoken a couple of times at greater length: once about an abandoned van, on another occasion about the proliferation of ReportsOfHisDeath_9780778387466_Final_CC22.indd 1 4/2/25 9:05 AM 2 JAMES GOODHAND smaller dog breeds. These conversations all felt as though they’d happened within the last year or two, but on closer scrutiny of my memory were more than a decade ago. ‘Council said it’d be fixed yesterday,’ Barry told me. ‘Then it was this morning. Then it was by the end of today. Drive you mad, don’t they, Ron?’ ‘Let me guess, electronic ignition boiler?’ ‘You got it. No leccy, no heating neither.’ We shared an ironic chuckle at progress. ‘Three days? You must be bloody frozen.’ Barry searched the ground at his feet, as people tend to, for the point to which my stare kept returning. I’ve never been a natural eye contactor; when I do try I feel invasive and find my gaze wandering south entirely of its own accord, causing unease and a shifting of clothing, most especially when addressing a female. ‘I’m sure I’ve a Primus stove somewhere,’ I said. ‘Whether I have a gas bottle, well that’s another matter.’ ‘Just a kettle full, Ron—that’ll do me. Enough for a brew and a wash.’ ‘I think I should probably have you in, really,’ I said, slackening my hold on the front door. ‘I don’t want to be a nuisance.’ He gritted his teeth as another gust snapped his trousers round narrow legs. ‘No. I really should.’ ‘You’re a pal, Ron,’ he said as I led us down the one-personwide path along the hallway, between the books and boxes stacked to one side, the many local papers and periodicals that I’ve not yet got around to, on the other. The topmost was a garish red promotion from an appliance store, emblazoned Special Offers for Ray Thorns. I turned it over to spare Barry’s blushes at misremembering my name. ReportsOfHisDeath_9780778387466_Final_CC22.indd 2 4/2/25 9:05 AM Reports of His Death Have Been Greatly Exaggerated 3 ‘Steady on. Steady on,’ I said as we squeezed into the darkened lounge, where we stood too close in the square of available floor. ‘My word,’ Barry said. ‘You have some bits and pieces.’ ‘You know how it is. One tends to . . . accrue.’ ‘Well, you have accrued all right, old pal,’ he chuckled. It was odd how the house looked so suddenly different, knowing it was being viewed for the first time by someone. The slack woodchip, the blues records stacked haphazardly to waist height, the many binbags stuffed full of unsorted charity shop purchases, the sheer weight of the shelving leaving the television set somewhat askew: things I’ve barely ever noticed, far less thought about, in years. I switched on the second and third bars of the fire. The stench of burnt dust rose from the glow. Barry warmed his palms. ‘For the grandkids?’ he asked, eyeing the model Mercedes-Benz racing car lying stripped to every last screw and rivet on a tea tray. ‘Yes. Yes, of course. Ready for paint, now. And a little chrome plating here and there.’ ‘That’s some collection you’ve got, Ron,’ he said, looking at the many completed projects parked around the room and on the furniture. He studied a couple up close: a desert pink de Havilland bomber I restored from a car boot sale, a somewhat unloved mobile cinema truck now gleaming in its white and blue livery and with all new glass. ‘Something to keep me out of trouble. It’s not so much about the finished products, it’s the search and rescue that I rather like.’ ‘How old?’ Barry asked. ‘Oh, quite varied. 1950s are something of a golden age. Some much newer, eighties and even nineties. I’ve a few pre-war Schuco models about too.’ ‘No,’ Barry laughed. ‘The grandkids! How old?’ ReportsOfHisDeath_9780778387466_Final_CC22.indd 3 4/2/25 9:05 AM 4 JAMES GOODHAND ‘Yes, right. Twelve and . . . nine.’ ‘Nice ages.’ He didn’t ask for names or genders. ‘And yours?’ He looked a little warmer at the thought. ‘In their twenties now. All five of them.’ ‘Blimey.’ ‘Just the two for you?’ ‘That’s right.’ I busied myself clearing an armchair of dinner plates (unused) and folded clothes. ‘I should make that tea. You must be gasping.’ ‘Been doing me in, I don’t mind telling you. That new family two doors up—you think they’d have to wait three days?’ I smiled at the floor. I’d no wish to encourage him, nor seem impolite. I was quite aware which family he meant. They’ve certainly caused me no bother. ‘What are they, Ron? Albanians?’ ‘Ukrainian I believe.’ ‘Should’ve given some foreign name, shouldn’t I? Council be right around, make sure I’m in the lap of luxury.’ ‘Perhaps so,’ I mumbled. ‘Always us last in the queue, isn’t it, Ron?’ ‘Go a little easy on this old thing,’ I said, dusting down the cushion. ‘It’s of quite some age. Would you believe that my own mother was breast fed on this very chair? I turned some new bun feet for it a while back from a little salvaged walnut, though. Good for another century of service.’ ‘Yes. Right. Thanks,’ he said, looking a touch jarred but taking the weight off his feet all the same. ‘I don’t imagine you’ve eaten?’ I called from the kitchen over the roaring kettle. It had taken some minutes but I’d dug out my favourite of the larger teapots (stout steel, charity shop, five cups with ease). ReportsOfHisDeath_9780778387466_Final_CC22.indd 4 4/2/25 9:05 AM Reports of His Death Have Been Greatly Exaggerated 5 ‘Had something at lunch. Cold, needless to say.’ I felt a faint dread at his answer. Of course, the right thing was to provide the man a hot meal. I’d eaten alone, almost exclusively, in the twenty-something years since my earlier-thanplanned retirement. Should I not be glad of the company? I took the menu from the drawer. I usually only treat myself on Christmas Eve; the thought of another takeaway in barely three months sweetened the deal. ‘You eat Chinese, Barry?’ ‘Damn right I do!’ He was moseying in the hallway, examining the pictures on the walls, hands clasped behind his back, expression of mild interest on his face, the way a royal surveys a foreign custom. ‘But honestly, Ron, don’t worry yourself.’ ‘My treat. Please. They’re very efficient. We’ll have you back home inside an hour, lickety-split, warm and fed.’ ‘You’re a true gent.’ He took his tea mug from me with two grey hands. ‘The set menu for two has always stoked my fancy.’ ‘Allonby House?’ he said, peering closely at a school photograph hung by the kitchen door. ‘Your kids went there?’ He didn’t disguise his amazement that someone of our standing might educate their children at such a place. ‘No. Not mine.’ I replied. ‘The fees must be frightening.’ ‘I believe they are. No, I was on the staff. Gave thirty-nine years of my life to that school.’ ‘Get less for murder,’ Barry said, gulping his tea. ‘I was the caretaker, officially speaking.’ ‘Unofficially?’ ‘Well, I did all sorts. Built props for plays, coached the chess team. And I taught some classes too, as time went on. Science mostly. English. History sometimes for the older boys—eleven, twelve, thirteen in some cases. I even had my own tutor group ReportsOfHisDeath_9780778387466_Final_CC22.indd 5 4/2/25 9:05 AM 6 JAMES GOODHAND for a while—a scholarship class.’ My tone was braggy. I tamed it before continuing. ‘Things weren’t so regimented back then, I suppose.’ ‘They must’ve thought very highly of you, Ron.’ ‘The boys used to call me Spike. You know, instead of Mr Thorns. You get it? Instead of . . . Thorns.’ I stopped myself saying Ray just in time. ‘Spike. I see.’ The nickname didn’t amuse him like it does me. ‘Who’s this bloke with the bright green hair?’ He tapped a shaky finger on the glass over where the masters were seated. ‘Well now that, would you believe, is in fact yours truly.’ ‘No!’ ‘As God is my witness.’ ‘You’re telling me punk made it as far as London’s poshest prep schools?’ I laughed. ‘Something like that.’ I must have in my possession twenty school photographs from my life at Allonby House, but it was this—1982, year of the green hair incident—that I’d given wall space to, hanging there long enough for the fleeting sweep of morning sun to begin washing the colours away. ‘That is you,’ Barry said. ‘I can see it now.’ I smiled at those stacked rows of young men, each of whom would be something around fifty now. ‘Yes. I suppose it was.’ ‘So you couldn’t have sent yours there, then?’ he asked, as I refilled his mug. He was still wearing his coat, still looking every bit as cold and pale. ‘Sorry, my . . . ?’ ‘Your own children.’ ‘Yes, right.’ ‘Don’t they usually do a deal for teachers? Cheaper fees?’ ‘I wasn’t a teacher in the strictest sense. Perhaps there was an arrangement in place, I forget. But no, I didn’t . . . take it up.’ ‘Don’t suppose it did them any harm.’ ReportsOfHisDeath_9780778387466_Final_CC22.indd 6 4/2/25 9:05 AM Reports of His Death Have Been Greatly Exaggerated 7 ‘Tell me about yours,’ I said quickly. He was only too keen— gabbing for some minutes about his son and daughter-in-law’s emigration to the Costa Blanca, their many successful businesses, the achievements and fledgling careers of the grandchildren. It’s not that I’m in the habit of inventing children and grandchildren for myself. More that people assume, and I don’t go out of my way to correct them. This was not the first time I’d found myself head of a fictitious family, through no real fault of my own. The trouble is, people do love to talk about these things. There seems no harm in letting it be imagined that I had a wife, be her dead or divorced, and my quota of two-point-four children; not if that belief leaves someone free to enthuse about them and theirs. Easier, certainly, than trying to convince someone that I am perfectly content to be a bachelor. It does afford one so many freedoms, after all. I have, on a few occasions in the past, dared to confess to the fact that I almost did marry someone, once upon a time. But it’s a statement that invariably leads to all sorts of questions that I’d, frankly, prefer not to entertain. ‘You’re shivering, Barry,’ I said. His monologue had run its course, during which he had sunk onto the only stool in the kitchen. ‘Yes, I’m not quite feeling a hundred per cent.’ There was a stubble of sweat on his top lip. ‘I think these few days have taken their toll on you, young man,’ I said. My voice was suddenly different, a sound that echoed back to decades ago. ‘Think so,’ he huffed. ‘A nice warm bath? Would that be the thing?’ And still there was, I’m sure of it, no indication that he was seriously unwell. ‘That’s a fine idea,’ Barry said. I cleared a path up the stairs in order that a foot could be landed on every step. Thankfully, there was a clean towel, one ReportsOfHisDeath_9780778387466_Final_CC22.indd 7 4/2/25 9:05 AM 8 JAMES GOODHAND of the good ones, resting against the cylinder in the airing cupboard and piping hot, perfect for when he was done. I filled the tub to within a whisker of the overflow with a decent glug of bubble bath (used not as an indulgence, but it works wonders in preventing a tidemark after draining). With the towel, I left a choice of talcs, and a good pair of slippers I’ve yet to wear. ‘You go and relax, Barry,’ I told him in the hallway as I slipped on my overcoat to go and grab the takeaway, figuring the privacy would be appreciated in addition to the warmth. Finding little cash in my wallet, I left it on the telephone shelf, instead retrieving a couple of twenties from one of my hiding spots inside the 2007 Yellow Pages. ‘I’ll be back in half an hour or so, armed with a feast!’ ‘You’re a pal, Ron,’ he said once more. ReportsOfHisDeath_9780778387466_Final_CC22.indd 8 4/2/25 9:05 AM

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 Reports of His Death Have Been Greatly Exaggerated Copyright © 2025 by James Goodhand All rights reserved. 

No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission. 

Without limiting the author’s and publisher’s exclusive rights, any unauthorized use of this publication to train generative artificial intelligence (AI) technologies is expressly prohibited.

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ABOUT THE AUTHOR:


James Goodhand has written one adult novel, published by HarperCollins in the US, and two YA novels, published by PRH Children’s Books in the UK. 

His adult debut, The Day Tripper, was called "an essential, profound read" by The Washington Post. 

He lives in England.

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SOCIAL LINKS:


Twitter: @goodhand_james


Instagram: @james.goodhand

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BUY LINKS:


Bookshop


B&N


Books A Million


Amazon

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Friday, July 4, 2025

Spotlight of Night Sparrow Shelly Sanders


PHOTO SOURCE:
TYPORAMA

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THE NIGHT SPARROW
SHELLY SANDERS
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ALL INFORMATION IN THIS POST IS COURTESY OF THE BOOK'S AMAZON PAGE AND THE PUBLISHER'S WEBPAGE

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For fans of Kate Quinn and The Nightingale, a gripping story of a young Jewish girl who joins an elite Russian sniper unit and embarks on a mission targeting the highest prize of World War II: Adolph Hitler.

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July 1
Harper Perennial
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PRAISE FOR THE NIGHT SPARROW:

"In The Night Sparrow, Sanders dazzles us with her impeccable research and engaging storytelling skills. Elena Bruskina’s stint in the Red Army’s all female sniper unit (and later as an interpreter) highlights the resilience, comradeship and the callous realities of war. This is a gripping and historically authentic novel, sprinkled with the 'delectable irony' of a Jewish woman stalking Hitler." — Lisa Brahin, author of Tears Over Russia: A Search for Family and the Legacy of Ukraine's Pogroms

"The Night Sparrow is a tense, engrossing tale of WW2 that follows Elena Bruskina, a Russian Jew who becomes a sniper. The women of Elena’s platoon endure appalling conditions and risk their lives, and only to face disdain from male comrades. When Elena’s injuries force her to work as a translator, she finds herself on a team tasked by Stalin to hunt down Hitler during the final weeks of the Third Reich. Inspired by true events, this is an improbably beautiful novel about a brutal episode in history." — Janie Chang, bestselling author of The Phoenix Crown

"A gripping wartime story, Sanders’ page-turning narrative recounts women’s comradeship and courage in the face of carnage and peril from both outside and inside their ranks. With each turn of the page, the author's unwavering compassion for her characters shines through. Meticulously researched, Sanders’ illuminates a little-known chapter of women in combat and their astonishing contributions during WWII." — Jeanette Lynes, author of The Paper Birds

"Daughters of the Occupation is a neatly crafted saga of personal and national trauma, a story of tentative hope in a world of menace, as three generations of women strive to understand who they are, where they came from, and how they can feel free."  — Lucy Adlington, author of the New York Times Bestseller, The Dressmakers of Auschwitz, on Daughters of the Occupation

“A riveting story that will keep you turning the pages way into the night.”  — Joy Fielding, author of All the Wrong Places, on Daughters of the Occupation

"A gripping historical saga that skillfully addresses the trauma of the Holocaust." — Kirkus Reviews (starred review) on Daughters of the Occupation

**PRAISE TAKEN FROM THE BOOK'S AMAZON PAGE**

ABOUT THE NIGHT SPARROW:

With the Nazi invasion of the Soviet Union, Elena Bruskina’s world collapses.

The ambitious university student and her Jewish family are quickly forced into the Minsk ghetto where thousands are immediately murdered, including her father and brother.

Then her younger sister is publicly executed on false charges and her mother is shot. 

Alone with her grief, Elena escapes the ghetto, determined to avenge her family’s deaths.

Heading to Moscow, she enrolls in the Red Army’s newly created Central Women’s Sniper Training School.

After rigorous training,  she becomes a member of an all-female sniper platoon, a community of brave young women willing to give their lives to defend their country.

Then Elena is chosen for a secret mission—a daring and highly dangerous plan to capture the face of evil itself: Hitler.

Inspired by the real-life female snipers and interpreters in the Red Army during World War II, The Night Sparrow is a portrait of friendship, resilience, courage, and sacrifice under extraordinary circumstances. 


**SUMMARY TAKEN FROM PUBLISHER'S WEBPAGE**

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ABOUT THE AUTHOR:


Shelly Sanders is the bestselling author of the adult novel Daughters of the Occupation and the acclaimed young adult historical novels The Rachel Trilogy. 

She began her writing career as a freelance journalist working for major publications, including the Toronto Star, National Post, Maclean’s, Canadian Living, Reader’s Digest, and Today’s Parent. She lives in Ontario.

When I was eighteen, I discovered that my grandmother had been Jewish, but had given up her faith after escaping a Russian pogrom. I wanted to ask Nana about her experiences, but she'd died five years earlier.

I was sad that this information was withheld from me; I'd always envied religious people, and felt as if I'd missed out on something. When I became a mother, years later, the need to learn more about my grandmother flourished.

From Nana's sister, I found out that their family left Russia when fires were set in their village. They fled to Shanghai. After high school, Nana worked for a couple of years, and learned English. Then, she went alone by ship to California, worked as a nanny and completed a science degree in 1930 from the University of California, at Berkley.

My grandmother gave up her Judaism when she met my grandfather. They settled in Montreal where Jews were not welcome.

I wondered if Nana ever regretted her decision, was impressed by the forward-thinking woman she'd been, and had to know more about what life would have been like in pre-revolutionary Russia.

Rachel's Secret came out of this compulsion to understand my grandmother, to get inside her head. I named and created the main character after Nana, a smart, willful woman determined to escape the limitations thrust on Jewish women.

Because I wasn't raised Jewish. I wanted to see both sides: how did pogroms look to a non-Jew? As a journalist, I'm fanatic about accuracy, and carefully researched the period and culture.

Now, I wish I could tell Nana that her difficult journey to Canada inspired me to write my first book, that her struggle with religion has given me a healthy dose of skepticism, and that her determination to get a degree in a foreign country and language has instilled in me a perseverance which keeps me going, even on my darkest days.

**AUTHOR INFORMATION TAKEN FROM THE AUTHOR'S AMAZON PAGE AND PUBLISHER'S PAGE**
**PHOTO TAKEN FROM BOOK'S AMAZON PAGE**

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SOCIAL MEDIA:


Website


Instagram


Facebook

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Book Blogger Hop - 7/4/2025

Question of the Week:

Has your perspective on reading changed as you've grown older? If so, has it affected how you write your reviews? (submitted by Billy @ Coffee Addicted Writer)

My Answer:

I don't think my perspective on reading has changed.

I have changed the way I write my reviews - I make them shorter.  :)



Friendly Fill-Ins - 7/4/2025

                                            

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FRIENDLY FILL-INS:

1. My plans for July 4th include ________.

2. I ______fireworks.

3. I'm grateful that I have the freedom to ______.

4. I wish I could do a factory reset on ______.

  MY ANSWERS:

1.  My plans for July 4th include visiting family and of course reading.

2.  I like to watch fireworks.

3.  I'm grateful that I have the freedom to travel.

4.  I wish I could do a factory reset and have my parents here.




Thursday, July 3, 2025

Spotlight of Typewriter Beach by Meg Waite Clayton


PHOTO SOURCE:

TYPORAMA
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TYPEWRITER BEACH
MEG WAITE CLAYTON
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ALL INFORMATION IN THIS POST IS TAKEN FROM THE HARPER COLLINS WEBPAGE AND THE AUTHOR'S GOODREADS PAGE.
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Set in Hollywood and Carmel-by-the-Sea, an unforgettable story of the unlikely friendship between an Oscar-nominated screenwriter and a young actress hoping to be Alfred Hitchcock's new star — from the internationally bestselling author of The Postmistress of Paris and The Last Train to London.

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July 1

Harper

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PRAISE FOR TYPEWRITER BEACH:

'Nothing beats Grace Kelly on the Riviera, as seen in Alfred Hitchcock’s To Catch a Thief. But Clayton’s portrait of an aspiring Hitchcock blonde has intrigue to spare . . . . Fans of Hollywood’s golden age will fall in love.' — Publishers Weekly (starred review)


'Clayton delivers another top-tier dual-timeline historical. Thought-provoking and timely, it’s sure to be a big summer hit.' — Library Journal (starred review)


 “5 Challah rating—Typewriter Beach is a wonderfully woven story with unexpected twists and connections. Written from alternating perspectives, it redefines family.” — Jewish Voice and Opinion


“Meg Waite Clayton pulls the reader into the story with nuanced, believable characters and prose that tells ‘just enough’ to keep reading until the end . . . . Typewriter Beach is not just a captivating story about Hollywood in the 50’s and 60’s or another examination of what family is about, it is also a portrait of the strength and importance of friendship and an intense look at the effect that the sowing of distrust can have on society.” — The Gloss Book Club


“This riveting historical brings McCarthy-era Hollywood to life . . . . I loved this story for its propulsive plot and riveting period details, most especially the numerous lovely portrayals of people finding love and family even when they’d given up hope of it happening for them in an unkind world.” — Modern Mrs Darcy


'Nothing beats Grace Kelly on the Riviera, as seen in Alfred Hitchcock’s To Catch a Thief. But Clayton’s portrait of an aspiring Hitchcock blonde has intrigue to spare. Fledgling star Isabella Giori’s rise is cut short when she gets pregnant, after which she makes a fateful friendship with a blacklisted screenwriter while the McCarthy hearings rage on. Fans of Hollywood’s golden age will fall in love.' — Publishers Weekly, 'Summer Reads'


PRAISE TAKEN FROM HARPER COLLINS' WEBPAGE

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ABOUT TYPEWRITER BEACH:

1957. Isabella Giori is ten months into a standard seven-year studio contract when she auditions with Hitchcock. Just weeks later, she is sequestered by the studio’s “fixer” in a tiny Carmel cottage.

Léon Chazan, next door, is annoyed as hell when Iz interrupts his work on yet another screenplay he won’t be able to sell, because he’s been blacklisted. But soon, they’re in his roadster, speeding down the fog-shrouded Big Sur coast.

2018. Twenty-six-year-old screenwriter Gemma Chazan, in Carmel to sell her grandfather’s cottage, finds a hidden safe full of secrets—raising questions about who the screenwriter known simply as Chazan really was, and whether she can live up to his name.

In graceful prose and with an intimate understanding of human nature, Meg Waite Clayton captures the joys and frustrations of being a writer, being a woman, being a star, and being in love. Typewriter Beach is the story of two women separated by generations—a tale of ideas and ideals, passion and persistence, creativity, politics, and family.
TAKEN FROM HARPER COLLINS' WEBPAGE

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ABOUT THE AUTHOR:


Meg Waite Clayton is a New York Times and internationally bestselling author of 9 novels, including the forthcoming TYPEWRITER BEACH (Harper, July 1) — on Publishers Weekly’s list of 12 fiction “Hot Books of Summer,” which they call, in a starred review, “irresistible… Readers will be riveted.”

Her THE POSTMISTRESS OF PARIS was a Good Morning America Buzz pick, New York Times Book Review Editors’ Choice, Costco Book Club pick, People Magazine, IndieNext booksellers, LoanStars librarians, USA Today, Book of the Month Club and Amazon Editors’ pick and Publishers Weekly notable book the San Francisco Chronicle calls "gripping … an evocative love story layered with heroism and intrigue — the film ‘Casablanca’ if Rick had an artsy bent … powerful.”

Her National Jewish Book Award finalist THE LAST TRAIN TO LONDON was praised by Kristin Hannah as “An absolutely fascinating, beautifully rendered story of love, loss, and heroism … A glowing portrait of women rising up against impossible odds.”

Prior novels include the #1 Amazon fiction bestseller BEAUTIFUL EXILES, the Langum-Prize honored national bestseller THE RACE FOR PARIS- and THE WEDNESDAY SISTERS, one of Entertainment Weekly's "25 Essential Best Friend Novels" of all time. Her THE LANGUAGE OF LIGHT was a finalist for the Bellwether Prize (now PEN/Bellwether Prize).

Her novels have been published in 24 languages throughout the world.

She has also written more than 100 pieces for major newspapers, magazines, and public radio. She has participated in the Meryl Streep and Nicole Kidman sponsored The Writers Lab for screenwriting, mentors in the OpEd Project, and is a member of the National Book Critics Circle and the California bar. megwaiteclayton.com

AUTHOR BIO AND PHOTO TAKEN FROM HER GOODREADS WEBPAGE
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FOLLOW THE AUTHOR: