Of My Own Hand’s Weaving
Two things: As most of you know, I am not a regular devotee of romantic fiction. Actually, I tend to avoid it. And, if you recall, I had promised that this blog moving forward, would no longer be devoted debut authors but to more established, tried-and-true authors. You know, the “classics”. Well, today I am going to refute both statements. After all, I am only human with my own little quirks and foibles. Much like the characters in Of My Own Hand's Weaving, a deliciously quirky new addition to the chick lit genre by Mary Boscoletta.

See, last week, I was invited to join the #supportindiewriters group on Facebook because, well, I am one. And so I responded with a firm “Yes!” and then mentioned that not only do I write and self-publish, but I also host a Literary Blog and offered, thinking I’d only get a few nibbles, to review a few of members’ works. But, hah! My inbox is beginning to fill up with gifted eBooks and electronic manuscripts. So….What’s a poor writer/reviewer to do but pitch in to help my fellow independents?

Boscoletta, to say the least, has talent. While her debut novel is “typical” of the formulaic girl meets boy/boy gets girl, her characters are atypical. They are all too human, touched with the kind of descriptive realistic details that instantly capture a reader’s interest and imagination. Consider twenty-eight year old Jean, the main protagonist, who, living in a friend’s London attic, finds herself deeply embroiled in the conundrums of friendship, family, familial memories, betrayal, loyalty, and, of course, romance – emotionally, passionately, physically, and otherwise. Her distinctly nearly profound insights garnered as she steps boldly into the throes of love with Colombo “Col” Borgia, a very sexy Sicilian hairdresser, are captured by the author in a most refreshing, face-paced style. And her supporting cast is as equally weighty and deep: Gretchen with her down-to-earth post WWII Germanic lustiness; Frank’s loveable, cuddly weakness and culinary talents; Stefan and Peta who struggle with the death of wife and mother. Even long-dead Aunt Mary rings true. Jean is in the thick of them all, tooling around in a semi-battered Triumph convertible; trying to find her own way, to make sense of it all. No chick lit superficialities here.

The title, gleaned from a poem by John Keats, alludes to the self-woven silk threads that bind us all to others, they to us, and us to ourselves. A theme that the author quite capably carries through. There are reflective moments in Of My Own Hand's Weaving when each of the characters twist and tie and then unravel as they, seen through the author’s eyes and caressed by her own capable hands, weave the stuff of life that another bard once said, “dreams are made of”. Yet, while on the fast track to capturing her own true love, Gina (as Col calls her) is captured by more than just his dashing allure. It is his dark side and the curse of nightmares that entwine and entrap the not quite intrepid heroine. As this uniquely imaginative novel quickly twists and wends it way to a satisfyingly surprise denouement, the question is asked: Will she or will she not be blessed with the great love that promises living happy ever after?

Riddling her writing with Sicilian words, customs, and Italian phraseology that add depth and realism to her story, Boscoletta has woven her writing charms into a story that captivated me in the depths of its passion for life and for love. And just might have persuaded me after I enjoyed idling away a rainy afternoon with this one, to pick up yet another of its kind. Romance, anyone?