Review of THE AUCTIONEER by Joan Sampson

The Auctioneer by Joan Samson

My rating: 5 of 5 stars

THE AUCTIONEER is a strange, subtle, beautifully written book about how evil comes slowly and insidiously to the small New England farming town of Harlowe in the form of Perly Dunsmore, a charismatic, handsome middle age traveler who has taken the town to his bosom, declaring it the epitome of old-fashioned values and morals.

The main couple, Mim and John Moore, are hard working farmers with a generations old farm that both of them cherish. They live with John's elderly crippled mother and their five year old golden locked daughter Hildie--though they live simply and work endlessly, they are happy. Without warning Perly, along with the local sheriff Bob Gore, come by to pick up an item for their fundraising auction one Thursday afternoon. Mim and John give gladly, and are surprised when Perly refunds them part of the money he made selling their object. But soon Perly and the new "deputies" are coming every Thursday to collect, and the objects the Moores are forced to relinquish become more and more necessary and precious, and in an unpredictable twist John is driven by the final "auction" to either desert his ancestor's homeland or take a violent stand.

Writing in the best Shirley Jackson tradition, that is, that evil lurks just behind a neighborly smile, Joan Sampson wrote this book in the seventies when urban dwellers in the Northwest were rushing the farmlands, trying to buy a piece of simplicity as a counterpoint to their crime-ridden cities. This book reminds me of THE CHILD BUYER, without its sardonic slant. In its own way it is a tale of horror though the horror exists in the human soul.

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WHEN I SAW A UFO

This is sort of a Halloween story, though it didn't seem like it at the time. It was around this time of year in 1979. Bruce and I had met in the spring and fallen in love. We were both still married to other people. I was out and about after dark in the midwest on a cool night, driving a little green Datsun station wagon on my way home to my stone house out in the country. I saw a UFO. I wasn't particularly startled, although the thing seemed to be very close to my car, in the air above me. I could see the bottom of it and it looked like a flattish rectangle with lights in three of the four corners. I stopped the car and got out to look at it. It was hovering about fifty feet above me and looked about the same size as my car. I have no idea if it was. I got back in the car and drove another mile and had exactly the same experience. Whether it was the same UFO or a different one, I don't know. It looked about the same except it had somehow moved another mile without me realizing it. I was extremely calm considering. Again the thing seemed to hover over me. Another mile down the road, almost to my house, the experience repeated itself. I was stymied. As soon as I got home I called Richard Gubauer Air Force Base, which was within shouting distance of my house, and reported seeing one UFO three times, or three UFO's one time each. Wasn't ever really sure. The guy answering the phones that night said there'd been over two hundred reports. He didn't seem thrown by it either. I called Bruce and told him. I don 't remember his reaction, but it seemed mild. Then I pretty much forgot about it. Until now...

Will it go round in circles?

I spent most of this Saturday editing a massive horror novel my brilliantly talented husband has written, thus bringing up the subject of professional jealousy in our household. And I'd say it was rampant. I've been Bruce's first editor from the time we met. He, on the other hand, seldom reads anything I have written. By myself, that is. Often we write together, which means mainly we plot together and he does the actual writing, though not always.  Frankly, I hate to write. I just happen to love what I have written, and often it comes out of the blue anyway and it's like reading it for the first time. The advantage to being Bruce's first editor is that I get to read his stuff before anyone else does. The disadvantage is, when I'm editing Bruce's book, I'm not writing my own. You'd think that professional jealousy would not rear its ugly head between two people as crazy about each other as we are, but it's plagued us from the beginning. We often had to work in different fields just to avoid it. And when we do work together, there's always the question of who wrote what and which one of us came up with what idea. It gets pretty ridiculous sometimes, since Bruce has no memory for that sort of thing at all and I remember every little detail.  Our writing is actually nothing alike, though I can do a pretty fair imitation of Bruce's style and have on occasion. But we both grew up on sci-fi and mystery stories, Shirley Jackson, and Alfred Hitchcock films, so we have a lot in common as far as our pop culture vocabulary goes. Nowdays it's easy to tell the books we own apart; Bruce likes to read male writers and fiction, and I'll read anything except a romance novel. I've always been Bruce's biggest fan. I've often wished he were mine. That spot is taken by my daughter Akisha, an enormous April booster and someone who has read my screenplays and attempts at novels over the years. As it is she and I often have exactly the same book, we like the same things as far as reading goes, and I trust her implicitly. Bruce still doesn't read my writing, exactly the way Richard Matthews in my book, LIE LIKE A WOMAN, does not read the novels Bree, his wife, writes. You could say it was art imitating life... LIE LIKE A WOMAN: A Bree and Richard Matthews mystery

RUNNING TO STAY IN ONE PLACE

I am beginning to confuse my various blogs.  My latest count is three: one dealing with writing and publishing, one dealing with oil paintings (mine) and the third, this one, dealing with the inanity and insanity of life. I've had to write all my blog addresses (not to mention my social network addresses) down in a notebook just to keep up.  And it's late and I'm tired. Might as well see if I can include a link in this post, which originates at Posterous. So here goes: LIE LIKE A WOMAN, a Bree and Richard Matthews mystery, by me So if this link actually works, go check it out. Better yet, buy. You'll be putting food in my mouth...

This is an oil portrait, 6"x6", of my good friend Colleen Ross, a remarkable painter of beautiful women. We have never met, but I used a grainy photo to paint from and she actually loved it. I haven't painted in a year and this was to get my feet wet.

What I have been doing is publishing my humorous detective novel, LIE LIKE A WOMAN, on Amazon.com in both trade paperback and Kindle format. LIE LIKE A WOMAN is the first in the Bree and Richard Matthews mystery series. It's a terrific read if I do say so myself and I'm working on the second in the series, DIE LIKE A MAN even as we speak (blog).

I've also got an author's page now on Amazon with my syndicated blog from wordpress.com. Writing two blogs might end up being a nuisance, but I don't publish my artwork in the other one; it is strictly about writing...

the spirit beneath the flesh

rough rough week.

the world seems a little less real every day.

i had a near-death experience years ago. i've never gotten over it. i really really didn't want to come back--i felt at home for the first time in my life. never before or since.

i really feel i was never meant for this world.

two paintings today:

self-portrait (a much younger self, admittedly)

and my beautiful son (also much younger)

wish i had a decent camera again. hard to believe i was ever a photographer (i always leave this out of my resume; it seems like just too much to add, after the rest of it; no one can ever believe i've done so many different things...) my daughter's a brilliant professional photographer now, thanks to her father.

it's the middle of the night.

maybe next time, a poem...

this world then the fireworks

it's a hard knock life, isn't it?

that's probably why i paint when i can. it's the only time my mind completely sets me free--no thoughts, just the tactile pleasure of the paint or pastel tracking across the page or canvas or panel.

i can listen to music and paint. when i write music is an annoying distraction, but when i paint it becomes the rhythm of the line.

i love it...