Lycanthrope, by Michael J Richardson (Aka, me). Self promotion Sunday.

Two long have I written this blog with no self-promotion so, as of today, that's stopping.
Don't worry, I'll still be posting reviews on the many books that I read and I'll do my best to keep them as eclectic as possible so you don't get bored but in the meantime I thought it only right to share some of my writing with you - this is Mad Mike's Writing Blog after all!
Most of my writing has a similar theme - be it the short stories, poems or novels - that theme being, reality interspliced with a little something out of the ordinary. This could be a haunting, a vampire, magic or, as is the case here, a Werewolf, but I like the unreality just touched upon, hinted at, rather than it dominate the narrative so, over the next few months you'll see a few more posts like this; posts about what I write and what might be coming.
I hope you enjoy these and I look forward to any feedback too, so without further ado, Lycanthrope, the subject of this post, which I thought a perfect place to start as it is one of my oldest short stories, one I wrote when I was nineteen - now why would that be of any significance, constant readers? - and I've learnt a lot since then.
Probably one of my less subtle efforts, admittedly but I still feel it has something all these years later as, amidst all the death and violence the main theme here is that of love. So have fun discovering it for yourselves and next time I'll introduce you to a ghost, a vampire, or some good old-fashioned magic.
In addition, as a little bonus, you can also read about an unfortunate runner who trips and has a fall, in the flash fiction, Root.
Lycanthrope can be downloaded for free from:

https://www.amazon.co.uk/gp/product/B00E4X8YY8/ref=dbs_a_def_rwt_bibl_vppi_i3

Don't forget to search my blog for your favourite authors and books and if I haven't read them, message me with your recommendations.

The Girls, book review. (Emma Cline)

I've seen this book widely publicised in the press and in bookshops since its release and lots of Bookstagrammers seem to like it so I thought it was about time I dipped my toe in the water.

The writing style is right up my street with plenty of detail (sometimes a little too much) but the loss in momentum when the descriptions go off point is easily forgiven as you become increasingly immersed in the Californian summer of 1969.

You feel the sweat ooze from Evie Boyd's pores, the smell of garbage on Suzanne's clothes, the heat of the campfire as Russell strums his guitar but most of all you feel Evie's uneasiness as she gradually succumbs to her new surroundings.

The other girls are all older than Evie but she wants to be them, be liked by them, especially Suzanne, and so she goes to the ranch where Russell promises sex, drugs and a surreal, almost naturist lifestyle where rules are in short supply.

There's a record deal on the horizon, freedoms that fourteen-year-old Evie wouldn't have dreamt of in her previous life - where she hung out with the plump girl and did things that 'normal' fourteen-year-olds did.

At the ranch people just come and go; they steal food from dumpsters and borrow cars that aren't theirs. Their clothes are pooled and so, before the week is out Evie finds herself transformed. The drinks flow, drugs are shared and she is farmed out for sex, accompanying the indomitable Suzanne to Mitch's house - Mitch being the man promising the record deal.

For the most part, I found this book quite good, but what I do take umbrage with is the use of a fourteen-year-old protagonist.

The other girls are mostly eighteen so I saw no reason for Evie to be so young, other than for shock value, and the events in the book are shocking enough.
The other let down for me was (spoiler alert, spoiler alert) that the main event, the mass murder that is alluded to throughout the book, doesn't even involve Evie. What the hell!!

I wanted her to be in the thick of it, growing a conscience and trying to stop it or relishing in the slaughter, for Suzanne to save her maybe or take the hit because Evie was so young, what I didn't want was a flashback of the trial transcripts and a bit of hearsay.

So, The Girls is beautifully written and memorable but lets you down at the end.

Three stars.

Don't forget to search my blog for your favourite authors and books and if I haven't read them, message me with your recommendations.

The Colour Purple, book review. (Alice Walker)

A recommended read from my wife this one, and now it is a recommended read from me too, but a word of warning - this book plays with your emotions. It is not an easy read.
The pain of what Celie goes through in the book, the trials of a life with a father who rapes her, a husband who beats her, loves another woman, can only be described as a hard, wretched life, but forsaking all of this, Celie pulls through. She has her God and there is joy in friendship, love from family and music in her soul.

Born poor, black, and down south, Celie has little going for her, even her sister manages to escape her fate by having a good head on her shoulders and the ability to learn quickly, something Celie finds hard, and so, barely a teenager, Celie gives birth to her first child, fathered by her dad, and it doesn't stop there.
Told in a series of letters written by Celie, firstly to her God and then to her sister, Nettie and eventually from her sister back to her, The Colour Purple is a fiercely compelling book that has you at times on the edge of your seat. The letters from Nettie come from Africa where she has ventured as a missionary, and these were some of the highlights for me.
Not knowing whether Nettie would succumb to infection or disease whilst in Africa, whether Celie would ever see her sister's letters - her father intercepts them for many years - or whether Nettie would ever find out what Celie has had to endure in life, keeps the narrative flowing and the pages turning fast.
By reading this book you open yourself up to a roller-coaster of emotion: there will be tears, you will feel fear, hatred and anger, but as the book comes to a close you will feel a deep, deep respect for the main character and the author, for this is a journey that feels so real it could be autobiographical.
Praise be then for The Colour Purple. Four stars.

Elizabeth is Missing, book review. (Emma Healey)

Confused.

That's how this book made me feel, confused. Let me explain.

The style is easy but the subject matter, dementia, is tough but handled well.
Our main character, Maud, is slowly losing her way in the world, wondering how one grows marrows and where her friend Elizabeth is. She is both warm and lovable, as well as damned right annoying, like your own Nan/Mum, maybe, and you feel for her.
She gets on the bus but can't remember why, goes to the shop to buy food she already has, driving her daughter Helen, mad, and she has a fixation on her friend Elizabeth, being missing. There are subtleties and quirks to her character that are very believable and you quickly warm to her, worrying that she might get lost or worse, injure herself.

I like the back story too - Maud's sister goes missing when she is a teenager - and the decisions she makes when she was still a child felt plausible and realistic, and I thought the narrative when she is older and confused, forgetting things that have just been explained to her, is well written and convincing, but for me the book jumps from the past to the present too much. I would have preferred the book to have been in parts rather than chapters. Let me explain.

Every chapter is split between the past and the present, and there are a lot of chapters in what is a relatively short book, and it is here that I think it would have worked better if there had been a run of chapters focusing on the past, and then the same for the present, so one could get more involved with the characters of that time, and what was happening to them, before hopping back and forth; other than that, the book was an enjoyable read.
Three stars then for Elizabeth is Missing.

Heart of Darkness, book review. (Joseph Conrad)

Sitting on a cruising yawl (a sailing boat to you and I), in the Thames estuary, waiting for a flood to subside and the tide to turn, Marlow - a seaman of some repute - recants the epic journey he once took into the heart of the African rain forests; to the heart of darkness.

Just getting a commission was hard enough, until a wealthy benefactor stepped in, and his passage from England to Europe and then on to the African continent, took weeks, all before he had to battle his way through the dense jungle of the Congo to discover 'his' steamer a wreck.

A month or two pass whilst he repairs his charge, making her seaworthy again, and then finally, he is able to press on, up the Congo River in search of the legendary explorer and ivory thief, Mr Kurtz.

With every mile travelled, the forest encroaches, the air thickens and the natives get bolder. As a reader you feel the tension build, the exhaustion and the sweat running down their backs, you hear the call of the birds, feel the humidity, as if you are right there in the jungle, and you get nervous when you see, through dense undergrowth, eyes staring back at you.

Heart of Darkness is a short book but the writing is as fierce as the mosquito filled heat soaked African rain forest, and as every meander in the river is traversed, the intensity rises and the tension builds, leaving you somewhat exhausted by the end but wanting more.

Three and a half stars for this one then, as it is good, builds tension well and has you on edge for a fair chunk of the book, but I did feel a bit lost sometimes, which might be me, but there you go.

No Country for Old Men, book review. (Cormac McCarthy)

Have you ever been punched in the face by a book?

It's a simple question, and up until now I can't honestly say that I have.

I've been wooed by books, romanced, charmed and frightened by them, I've even been brought to tears, be them happy or sad, but never in my many years and hundreds of books, have I ever been punched in the face, (although Fight Club was like a good slap), but I have now.

The simplicity of the writing that annoyed me so in, The Road, is here, as is the non-existent grammar, but with a relentless madman on the loose, (Chigurh), several trucks full of dead Mexicans, a missing case of money, and a Sheriff who's not as stupid as you might think, the action and sheer pace of this book make you forgive it those annoyances.

When Llewelyn Moss discovers a drug deal gone wrong, and figures out where the money might be at, his life expectancy takes a turn for the worse.

The relentless pursuit of Llewelyn and the money across the barren Texas landscape, through towns, hotels and even across the border to Mexico, is punishing, sad and thrilling in equal measure. The innocent suffer, as do some of the criminals, but the stand out character has to be, Anton Chigurh. Never have I come across such an empty shell of a man, someone so devoid of emotion; he's just so convincing it sends shivers down your spine.

You may all have seen the film, it's a very good representation of the book, so maybe y'all know what to expect if you read this, but for me, there's nothin' like discoverin characters for yourself.

The deep, deep, sadness that this book left me with, might not be y'all cup o’ tea, nor might the violence, but it's not a long book, so I say give it a go, especially if y'all like a good punch in the face!

So the non-existent grammar didn't bother me as much, the southern Texas drawl was beyond convincing, probably the most convincing dialect I have yet read, (I'm not brave enough to read Trainspotting yet), but due in part to the books brevity, and what I thought was a rather pointless conversation between Sheriff Bell and the old man at the end, I'm gonna have ta knock a half star off.

So, four and half stars for, No Country for Old Men then.

Bloody fantastic!

The Drop. (A short story by yours truly, about . . . well, I'll let you decide).

In light of all the rain we've had recently, I thought I'd be bold and share another of my short stories with you fine folk.

I hope you enjoy, and that Spring, springs shortly.

The Drop

The party of precipitation was over, and we were heading for the front.

We’d had a lot of fun in training and the party was our last hurrah. It was something every newbie had to attend before their first drop, and every newbie had to do at least one drop.

I see some familiar faces in the cloud, mostly the guys I’d been training with; I even see Bobbie and I like her. She has a nice curve, if you know what I mean?

I thought all the pep talks were over, but before we begin our descent, Big Walt shuffles up.

Now Big Walt is a legend. A complete, you name he’s done it legends. This guy’s been down the longest darkest scariest rivers in the world, over the tallest, fastest waterfalls; conquered Everest and survived the Atacama.

The moment Big Walt opens up, you shut up. You do this out of respect and because you want to hear what he’s going to say.

“Okay newbies.” Silence! No-one can hush a crowd like Old Walt. “Keep it tight out there and let’s not have any collisions, you know what happens if we collide.”

An image of the Doc showing us the aftermath of a collision in training makes me feel all woozy, but I hold it together. Then I realise what Big Walt has done. He’s taken everyone’s mind off of the drop, and suddenly it’s our turn.

“Take it easy guys,” he says as we reach detachment point. “And try to avoid the concrete; you’ll get back a lot quicker if you stick to the soft stuff.”

“OH . . . MY . . .”

The rush, the sense of freedom, the shear thrill of it all, is indescribable.

It takes a second before I clear the cloud, so I guess it’s about two thousand feet to Earth, but what a rush. No wonder this is addictive.

Big Walt flies past in a flash. I don’t know how he does it, there’s so much more to him than me. He changes shape and squeezes through gaps I’d never fit through, but that’s why he’s a legend I suppose.

There’s no way I can keep pace, so I ease up, and as I do, I see Bobbie again.

“Ninety seconds we’ll never forget,” she shouts, and I don’t disagree.

As the ground comes up to meet us, we spot two brightly coloured mackintoshes to our right, so we aim for them.

To most of the world I am nothing but a nuisance, something to shelter from, but for the two young kids stomping in the puddles that Bobbie and I are about to replenish, I’m nothing but fun.

I land with a splash, and the last thing I hear, as Bobbie and I join millions of our comrades in the waterlogged earth, is a giggle, and I can’t wait to get back up there.

The Girl with all the Gifts, book review. (M.R.Carey)

Post-apocalyptic horror books come in all different shapes and sizes, from the true epics like, The Stand, to thin slivers of excellence like, I am Legend, but most of them fit into just a few categories: The Virus, The War or the Invasion; this book however, is harder to categorise.

There is a virus of sorts, but we only know that it turns people into 'hungries', zombie like creatures that feast on non-infected people, but, and it's a big but, there are the infected children, like Melanie, the girl with all the gifts: super intelligent, nice, articulate and more, who has the virus, but has no desire to feast on humans - or does she?

The book is told predominantly from Melanie's point of view, and it's all the better for it. She is kind and thoughtful, sad when her fellow classmates go and don't come back, but after the facility she has been kept, (imprisoned in), gets overrun by hungries, driven and herded by non-infected humans that eke out an existence in the wild, she and her teacher, the lovely Miss Justineau, have to leave, and leave quickly.

Together, with two soldiers and the doctor who was about to cut her up, they must travel across mile upon mile of unfamiliar, untamed territory, to London, and this part, for me, was of particular interest, because they are heading south through Hertfordshire, (which is where I live), Barnet, and then through north London, which I know well.

As the story develops, Melanie earns her freedoms: first, her handcuffs are removed, then, she's aloud to remove her face mask and find food, feast, but we don't see that, we don't need to, because we know how hungries feed!

There's something else, too. Some of the hungries have died and sprouted what look like organic tentacles! Could this be part two of the virus? After all these years, could it be mutating into something else?

With food and water shortages, Melanie's need to feed, Sergeant Parks trying to get the power back on and fix up an abandoned armoured vehicle, along with doctor Caldwell still readying herself to kill Melanie, things look bleak, but then, then the kids come and . . .

No; no spoilers here, you'll have to read it to find out how it all ends, but suffice to say, this book has pace, intrigue, and is quite different to anything else I've read. I love the characters, even doctor Caldwell, who you dislike intensely, and the tension, the constant threat that the author builds, the feeling that someone, or something, is always watching, that our band of survivors are just one wrong turn from death - or worse, zombiehood - is profound and creepy.

This book was not what I was expecting, it's not a save the world, 'The Passage trilogy', kind of thing, it's more, I am Legend, creepy, which was a nice surprise, and so, with the hairs on the back of my neck still prickling, a thoroughly well-deserved four stars for, The Girl with all the Gifts.

The Kiss. (A short story with bite, by yours truly)

It's been a long time since I shared any of my own work on here, which was half the reason for starting this blog in the first place, so for this post I thought I'd share a piece of flash fiction that I wrote last year, which was published in Graffiti magazine.

Enjoy.

The Kiss

Fever gripped me.

I had all the symptoms. Vomiting, which I put down to the drink - Shellie, Beth and I had been clubbing the night I fell ill - I had the sweats: I got so hot one night that my step-mother phoned the doctor, I got so cold the next that I couldn’t move for all the duvets blankets and clothes piled upon me. Then, there was the pain. It had started as a dull ache but got progressively worse.
My temperature rose from a rather unassuming 100.3 to a hyperpyrexian 103.4. I was delirious, I didn’t know what day it was, who my friends were.

My mother bathed me with a flannel and a bowl of cool water, but it didn’t work, so she placed me in a cold bath, but still the fever raged.

Then, on the fifth day, everything changed.

I woke with a hunger beyond any comprehension, in more pain than I could bear. I tried to eat, I wanted to eat, but everything felt coarse, alien in my mouth. Danny, my darling brother, he even bought me my favourite cake, but I didn’t want it. All I wanted was for the pain to stop.

I pushed Danny away; I pushed him with strength untold, and when I did the truth began to unravel.

An image appeared before me, the image of a face. I was lost, trapped in its beauty – just as I had been in the club that night - and I remembered now. The touch of those lips as they pressed upon mine, the cool of a tongue as we’d started to kiss, that faint metallic taste in my mouth, and with that recollection everything fell into place.

I looked at my brother all crumpled on the floor. He’d cut his hand on the shattered plate, his blood flowed freely and the smell was intoxicating. I was completely overwhelmed, there was nothing I could do to resist; the temptation was just too great. All I wanted, needed, to satisfy the hunger, to nullify the pain, was right in front of me.

In the blink of an eye I was sucking his fingers, feasting on his life, gorging on that rich delicious nectar. A second later and I had a hold of his head, tipping it back, exposing his neck, and as much as he wanted to struggle, he couldn’t; he was powerless, lost in my beauty.

The fear and wonder on his innocent face, his last gasp for breath, the smell and taste of his warm blood on my tongue, were all so enticing.

As my cold lips caressed his neck, I heard the pounding of his heart fill the room like a drum, and then, as a shudder of dread rippled through him, I sank my teeth into his exposed flesh, and we kissed!

Heart of Herts, book review. (Hertford Writers' Circle)

I have to admit, I read very little non-fiction, but a couple of my favourites in this collection fell into that category, which is what reading is all about I think: discovering something new.

From medieval Hertford, to time travelling spaceships, fiction to non; from teen romance, through a Saxon invasion, to the end of the world, this collection of short stories has the lot.

Where would we be, I wonder, without a place to scatter loved ones ashes, Charlotte Holmes excavating bones and a squeaky hospital door?

This volume contains works from eighteen different writers, with styles so eclectic, that you'll never be lost for something new. We have the plague, we have ghosts, we have historic and science fiction, there is death, (obviously) but there is life too, and love, lots and lots of love.

With such strong writing, vivid pictures of ancient lands and ghostly schools are conjured with aplomb, and one’s imagination runs wild; wild like the Meads that separate Hertford from Ware, wild like the storms that surge across open fields, wild like the Pageant fever that gripped Hertford in 1914.

To single out any particular author or story for merit here, would be wrong for two reasons: one, because I enjoyed them all in different ways - some were historic, factual, some were not, some were humorous, whilst others were sad, and having made Hertford my home for the last decade or so, I have had the honour of meeting some of these authors, which brings me to the second reason for keeping my opinions to myself: I'm too gutless to praise one of them over the others!

Oh, sod it, we're all adults here. This is, Mad Mike’s Writing Blog after all. Since when have I shied away from an opinion?

Ken Boyter: if you'd like to stand and receive your prize. Your depiction of what must have been a very difficult time in your life, honours those involved beautifully, and as I said at the beginning, non-fiction isn't something I dabble in much, but now, thanks to you, my eyes have been opened.

If anyone reading this post would like a copy of this collection, please message me or, head to: http://www.hertfordwriterscircle.org/anthologies.html, where you can contact the Hertford Writers' Circle for a copy.

Enjoy.

Cell, book review. (Stephen King)

Big, bold, blood thirsty apocalyptic fantasy fiction, all rolled into one neat little package by the best in the business?

Well, almost.

Some Stephen King books have as much in common with the horror genre as Bridget Jones's Diary, but Cell certainly isn't one of them.

The book starts like a punch to the face, smack, and you're in; you're in the middle of Boston to be precise, and the world is going mad, losing its head; people are starting to go crazy, committing mass suicide, attacking each other with gut retching, blood thirsty ferocity. (The incident is later referred to as the Pulse).

A proper Horror then? You bet; don't read this if you’re squeamish.

Our main character, Clayton Riddell - he's just managed to sell some artwork and has a spring in his step when the shit hits the fan - links up with the somewhat bookish Tom McCourt and rather excellent Alice Maxwell, (who quickly became my favourite character), her mixture of vulnerability and teenage verve being reminiscent of Beverly Marsh from 'It'.

The story centres round Clayton and his small posse, escaping the ever apocalyptic Boston, to begin the journey that will result (we hope) in Clayton finding his son.

They hole up in Tom McCourt's house for a night before pressing on, they find a school headmaster and a single pupil, (Jordan), who they try to convince to join their quest, and commit mass murder on the way.

Bloody, thoughtful, slightly SCI-FI, horrific and touching in equal measure, this book is Stephen King doing what everybody thinks he is doing, in all of his books, but rarely does, (most of his books are nowhere near as bloodthirsty as this one) and coming up trumps. 

It did feel like something was missing thought, and I won't spoil it by telling you the end, but it stopped very abruptly, and unlike a lot of his books, there was very little backstory to most of the characters.

It wouldn't surprise me it there's an unabridged version of this book somewhere in the SK vault; one with a bit more of a beginning, more character development, (like what happened at Jordan's school) and maybe even, what happened after Clayton finds . . .

Almost spoilt it!

Three and a half stars then, but if you're a King fan, I'm sure you'll read it anyway.

The Shock of the Fall, book review (Nathan Filer)

A great little book this, recommended to me by a colleague at work and well worth a read. 

Told in the first person by Matthew, a young man who has been in and out of an institution, due to mental illness; it takes us through his teenage life, and teaches us what matters to him and what does not.
The author handles the subject of mental illness with a certain subtlety which I felt suited the book, and has a good balance of back story. As one progresses, the reader starts to understand some of the main character's angst towards his family, his doctors and his dead brother. 

Some aspects of the story I found a bit unrealistic (moving out of the family home into a rented flat at seventeen, with schizophrenia), and I couldn't work out if the author intended the reader to guess at the fact that Matthew was somehow involved in his brother death, or whether it was supposed to be a surprise. Rest assured it was not.
Overall I enjoyed this book and would happily recommend it, Three and half stars,

Saturday, book review. (Ian McEwan)

I do like the way Ian McEwan writes; he seems to make the mundane almost interesting, and it's exactly what he's done in his book, Saturday.

The simple preparation of an evening dinner, is one of my favourite scenes in the book (for want of a better expression) and his expert grasp of the English language, even makes a journey to the corner shop interesting.

Told over a single Saturday, we wake early with our custodian for the day, a Neurosurgeon living in the centre of London, and follow him through the trials and tribulations of the day.

There's an anti-war protest to throw us off the scent, a daughter returning from Paris, which brings much drama, and the squash match to end all squash matches.

I've never played squash (because I'm too lazy), but I felt the sweat running down my back after reading that scene and the surgery performed was eloquently described. 

An altercation with a thug near the beginning of the story, comes to a heady climax near the end and is the main backbone of the book. Back story to support his father-in-laws inevitable candour, a pregnant daughter and a wife he adores (and makes love to twice in one day), fills in the blanks.

Better that Solar, but not as good as Sweet tooth, it earns a very solid three and a half stars. 

A good solid book then, and like most of Ian McEwan's books, a quick read. 

The Red House, book review. (Mark Haddon)

Interesting.
There are hundreds of reviews for this little book and they all seem to compare it with Mark Haddon's previous and very successful novel, 'The Curious Incident of the Dog in the Night-time' but as far as I can see, the similarities end with the Author's name.
This book is a snapshot, a voyeuristic look at an estranged brother and sister, who come together with their respective families for a weeks holiday.
Set near the border town of Hereford, the remote setting gives the reader a sense of isolation and we learn quickly, that all is not well.
There's divorce, infidelity, teen angst, and an eight year old that'll make you laugh.
Angela and Richard have lost their mother and the holiday is a way of Richard trying to reconcile their differences, but things don't quite go to plan.
Richard's step daughter finds out that someone she's bullying at school has tried to commit suicide, whilst Angela's son thinks he might fancy her. Angela secretly comfort eats in the middle of the night, whilst her husband tries to sever ties with his mistress. Richard's second wife has doubts about their relationship as Angela's daughter kisses Richard's step daughter, thinking she might be a lesbian, and whilst this is all going on, her eight year old brother, is making you laugh.
This is good writing, making what could have been a rather monotonous week in the country, into a rather entertaining yarn, so why only three and a half stars?
Because essentially, the book doesn't go anywhere. It starts on a train one Friday afternoon and ends a week later. All the characters interact in their own special way, and then at the end, without much ado, they go their separate ways.

Never let me go, book review. (Kazuo Ishiguro)

Very thought provoking.
This book is so much more than just a love story.
It is about the vulnerability of children, about how we treat our fellow man (or woman), and with the thousands or refugees fleeing the wars in the middle east at the moment, is quite poignant. Like our fellow man, escaping persecution and death, there is a constant undertone of negative inevitability in this book, it's as if it doesn't matter what happens to the characters, their fate is sealed.
The book is not long, almost a weekend read, but due to it's atmospheric eloquence, strong characters and a convincing sense of foreboding, it will stay with you for longer.
Hailsham school is a places I will never forget, and for many different reasons, mainly because I now know what went on their, before they closed it down!
As you may know, the book was made into a film, which was shot beautifully, with convincing performances from all the lead actors; and it was in fact the film that led me to the book in the first place, and I was not disappointed.
A solid four stars then, (four and a half if I could) and inspiration enough for me to acquire 'The Remains of the Day, by the same author.

The Snow Child, book review. (Eowyn Ivey)

This one came about simply because I saw it everywhere.
I'd see it on peoples shelves on coffee tables, I'd see it in shop windows, on Goodreads, I'd see it in my local charity shop, and as you might know by now, when the charity shop has a book, I find it hard to resist. 
So, not recommended in any way, I went into this book with my eyes wide open. 
I read the end before the beginning, which sounds weird but it’s a good idea because you get a sense of the history behind the story and the author’s influences, which sets things up nicely. (I'd recommend you start there.) 
The story itself was intriguing. A couple who can't have children relocating to the isolation that is Alaska, to avoid the questions, the looks, the pressures.  
So, having settled in, our two main characters start to make a go of it, but there's always that nagging doubt, that unspoken word, that the move was wrong, that they should go back home, give it all up. That is until a child appears, a young girl hidden in the snow. 
I liked the main characters, and the sense of isolation that only a good book can portray. I liked the mystical aspect too, which reminded me a little about how I write. Was this magic, Gods will, or just dumb luck? I liked the cold, the chill, the ever present danger of being lost, or worse, attacked by wild animals in the vast northern tundra of Alaska. Reading this book in the summer did nothing to warm me.
So, why only three stars? Well I suppose the book just wasn't me. The writing was good, the characters fine, the story was somewhat quirky, which isn’t always a bad thing, and I did enjoy it, but I didn't bond with it.
I guess, some you do, some you don't.