Tuesday, 25 July 2017

Say My Name by Alegra


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Hello Everyone, 

Welcome to my second post this week! If you missed yesterday's post, it was an unfavourable review of some rather popular makeup brushes so if you missed that then be sure to visit that post here, but today we are here to talk about a recent read of mine:




Say My Name is the story of Eve, a middle aged woman who is slowly drifting into surplus in a miserable marriage with a man more intent on discovering his spirit animal than paying any mind to the needs of his wife.
Eve spends her spare time searching for hidden treasures to help out her friend's antiques business between gardening work and dealing with her surly and self obsessed husband but one day her luck changes when she discovers a beautiful but damaged mystery instrument and meets the young and beautiful son of an old friend, both by chance but both carrying the opportunity for change, self discovery and satisfaction, the question is, will Eve step out of her comfort zone to chase her own inner self?

Say My Name was a fast paced and electrically charged read about the paths we take, the people we meet and the effects of it all on our being, it is about what is left when you've spent your life catering to others as a mother and devoted wife and then find yourself with an empty nest and a selfish spouse but mainly, it is a look into fixing the broken and wearing our scars well.

I gave Say My Name 3/5 stars on goodreads.


I have an extract from Say My Name below so that you can sample the writing style and see if you think this may be a book for you.

There, under a table heaped with chinofthsornobody uses anymore, she spots it, almost hidden behind    random objectcarrying price stickers faded by time.
Daylight filters through grimy windowonto worn green velvet, golden wood.
Strangely, the case is open—as if ithoping to be found.
Its bigger than a violin, much smallethan a cello. Its fat, squarer than mosinstruments of its kind, with an  elongateneck, and—this is what draws Eve in—encrusted with vines. The fragilcarvings seem greener. They were once painted, maybe.
Eve moves the piles of junk aside so thashe can crawl under the table. Usually shwears jeans for these expeditions, buits a hoNew Yorsummerso this morninshchose a thin dress, counting on thintricate print to disguise any smudges. Iwill rip easily,   though, so she tucks up thsides into her underwear to keep it off thfloor.
As she crouches down, the bones of heknees crack. Though shes fit and strong,her forty-eight-year-old body is starting tshow age. Her brown hair has almost ngray in it—good genes, her mother would havsaid—but soon shell have to decidwhether to color it. Shes never seen thpoint of lying about her age and, beinmarried, shes less concerned aboulooking young than she might be if shwere single. Still, the ugly milestonlooms. Shes tied her hair in a ponytail  ancovered her head with a scarf to protecagainst cobwebs.
By profession, Eve is a garden designer.Her husband, Larry, makes enough as product development manager for a pill-coating supplier to pharmaceuticacompanies tenable him to treat her littlbusiness as, basically, a hobby. Thiannoys her, but the truth is, she treats ithat way too. Taking it more seriouslwould mean confronting Larry and  claiming ownership of her time anpriorities, which she is not prepared to do.

The status quo feels fragile, although ialso feels as lasting as mortal life allows.  Althats required is that she keep thdelicate political balance, and doesnt rocthe boat or disturb the sleeping dogs. Shegotten into the habit of not pushing  ancommunication past the minimum required for practical matters and the  appearance of enough closeness to assurher that their marriage is sound.
On weekends, guiltless and free, shsearches out treasures for her friend Deborahs antiqushop. Larry doesncomplain; she suspects hes glad to have the house to himself. For her part, sheglad to be away from it. 
The strangobjects she finds ignite her imagination, conjuring up lives more exciting, anmore terrifying, than the low intensity safety of her own. Today shes exploring northerly part of NeYork City that, like a tidal pool left bsuccessive immigrant waves, housepeople from nations that may or may nostill exist: Assyrians, Armenians,Macedonians, Baluchistanis. Thalphabets in which the signs are written change block by block. Neighborhoodlike this are her favorite hunting grounds.

On her hands and knees under the table,she tugs at the instrument in its case. Ishifts with a jerk, leaving a hard outline ooily dust on the floor. Probably it hasnbeen moved in years. She lifts it up onto tin chest, keeping her back to thstorekeeper to disguise her interest.
The vines twine over the bodof thinstrument and up its neck, stretching out into the air. Though the delicacy of thcarving is almost elfin, it has the strength of vines: blindly reaching, defying gravity.The tendrils are dotted with smalflowers:jasmine, so accurately rendered that Eve identifiethem instantly. A flap of velvet in the lid conceals a bow, held in place bribbons. It, too, is twined with curlinvines.
She wiggles her fingers into the gapbetween the instrument and the velvet lining, pryinit loose. A moth flies ouinto her face and disappears in the slantinshafts of light.
Holding it by the neck, she senseanother shape. With spit and the hem oher  dress, she cleans away the dust.Theres a pudgy, babyish face, the vines tightening their weave across its eyes.Cupid, blinded by love.
Eve pinches up dust from the floor tdirty the face again. She has learned not timprove the appearance of things until after the bargaining is done and thmoney has changed hands. Then she turnthe instrument over.
The back is in splinters.
Eve touches her finger to thraggeshards of wood, longing to make this beautiful thinwhole again. The damagmust have been deliberate: an accidenwould have broken off the vines. Whadrove that person over the brink?Musicians frustration? Rage at fate? Heartbreak? She can almost feel remnants othe emotion stuck to the gash, likspecks of  dried blood.
If she had it repaired, the cost woulalmost certainly be more than thinstrument is worth. And even an expermight nobe able to restore it completelyIt could  serve as a decorative item, buonly if the gash stays hidden. Deborah wont want ishe has a rule againsbroken things. Also,  she feels morcomfortable with things thahave names, like bowls and vases  and candlesticks. Passionless things that sit prettily in nice rooms. Thhistory that thiobjecbearon its back would freak her out.
Eve moves to return the instrument to its exile, but she can't bring herself to do it.Now that she has touched it, she cannopush it back into the shadows.

Let me know if you've read Say My Name or if it sounds like something you'd enjoy reading,

Bye for now,

Rosy xx

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