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With Age Comes Seniority
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With Age Comes Seniority

By 49thShelf
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Ingenues are overrated. These are recent books by authors whose writing careers were established well after their fabulous forties, and even in their fantastic fifties, sensational sixties, and beyond.
They Left Us Everything
Why it's on the list ...
Everyone should have to live about six decades before they write a memoir, and hopefully have a family history as rich with stories as Plum Johnson's. This book has won a ton of awards and acclaim and is deserving of it all.
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The Dancehall Years

The Dancehall Years

A West Coast saga from Bowen Island, 1939
edition:Paperback
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Why it's on the list ...
Joan Haggerty has been up to interesting things for years, with a few books under her belt (including the Governor-General's Award-nominated memoir, The Invitation). But this new novel is her first book in two decades and promises very good things.
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Swallows Uncaged, The
Why it's on the list ...
At 73, Elizabeth McLean became a debut author with this book about Vietnamese women, whose "themes of entrapment by society, tradition, gender, expectation and history — are universal," writes Denise Ryan in The Vancouver Sun.
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Becoming Lin

Becoming Lin

edition:Paperback
also available: eBook
tagged : literary
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Why it's on the list ...
No so SO late in life, by Tricia Dower started writing after early retirement from a successful career in the corporate world. Her third book, Becoming Lin, came out this spring, and it contains levels of reflection and awareness that it can take decades for a writer to puzzle out.
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The Translation of Love
Why it's on the list ...
Why not publish your debut at 64? It worked for Kutsukake whose book about postwar Japan has received wonderful reviews.
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Death Valley

Death Valley

edition:Paperback
also available: eBook
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Why it's on the list ...
Susan Perly has been up to many things as a journalist, war correspondent and radio producer for the CBC. In the early '80s her Letters from Latin America for Peter Gzowski's Morningside reported from locales such as El Salvador, Guatemala and Chiapas. During the Iran-Iraq war she broadcast Letters from Baghdad, and she produced many documentaries for the weekly program Sunday Morning. Her first novel appeared in 2001, so readers have been waiting awhile for this one, which no doubt is informed by some of Perly's experiences in the field.
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Subject to Change

Subject to Change

edition:Paperback
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Why it's on the list ...
Renee Rodin has also been up to extraordinary things as an activist, bookstore owner, mother and writer in Vancouver over the decades. Her experiences are collected in this book of essays that demonstrates a life well-lived AND well-reflected upon. This book reminded me in its arc and engagement of the work of Grace Paley.
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A Cast of Falcons

A Cast of Falcons

A Birder Murder Mystery
edition:eBook
also available: Paperback
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Excerpt

1

The noise. The deafening, terrible noise. The sound of air, rushing through his clothing, tearing at his hair, clawing his lips back into a grotesque grin. Ten seconds? Perhaps. Thirty-two feet per second, per second. A memory. School? Shadows. Sadness. Anger.
     Lightheaded now, lungs unable to snatch the air rushing by. Panic. The rock face a grey curtain hurtling past at one hundred and twenty miles per hour. Terminal velocity. Another memory. School? Or college? Good times. Laughter. Women. Bars. Five seconds? Terminal! I’m dying.
     He had seen the angel, a brief glimpse as he released his grip on the rock face. On life. Pure, white, beautiful. An angel that had brought him death. Angels. Heaven. Too late? Never too late, his mother said.
     His mother. Regrets. Words not spoken. Actions not taken. Taken. Birds. Fear, now. Plunging down through open space. I’m going to die. Repentance. The key. God, forgive me. For the birds. For—

The man watching through binoculars fixed the body’s landing place against the scarred granite backdrop, and then swept the horizon in either direction. Nothing else stirred. He focused again on the rock face and relocated the crumpled form, remembering the sickening flat bounce as life had left it. He lowered his binoculars and sat, deep in thought, seeming not to notice the fierce buffeting of the winds that scoured the bleak landscape. After a moment, he tucked his bins into a canvas bag resting against his hip, careful not to damage the other item inside. Things had changed now, but perhaps there was still a way; and perhaps this other item, now nestling gently against the bins, held the key. He rose from his crouched position and began to make his way toward the towering presence of Sgurr Fiona.
     He moved with haste over the uneven terrain, beneath a sky that was grey and leaden. Swollen rain clouds were riding inland on the onshore winds. A fierce Atlantic squall was on its way and the exposed heath would offer no shelter once the storm arrived. The man wore only a heavy fisherman’s sweater, denim jeans, and walking shoes. He had no coat or waterproofs to ward off the horizontal rains that would soon drive across the landscape.
He had estimated the distance to the rock face at a quarter of a mile, and he could tell now, as he crossed the ground with his steady, purposeful gait, that he’d been about right. Even experienced walkers underestimated distances in these parts. The stark, featureless landscape seemed to draw in the mountains on the horizon, making them appear closer. But the man had spent enough time in the natural world to be alert for its deceptions. It was those of the human world he found harder to detect.
     He moved over the tussocks easily, barely noticing the sprigs of gorse and brambles that snatched like harpies at his trouser cuffs. Once or twice he stumbled over the craggy, moss-covered mounds, but for the most part his progress was sure-footed, even in the flimsy, well-worn soles of his walking shoes. On the horizon, the grey mass of a low cloudbank had begun its inexorable time-lapse march across the landscape. He would need to work quickly if he was to find shelter before the storm came. He had a window, a tiny chink of opportunity: The coming storm would discourage others from venturing out here. But squalls passed over these coastal areas quickly, chased into the inland valleys and hill passes by the relentless coastal winds. Behind the storm would come the clear white-blue skies of the North Atlantic. And then the walkers would return to the trails. It wouldn’t be long before the body was found and reported. He must do what had to be done long before that happened. He needed to be far away by then.
     The last of the vegetation died away and he emerged onto a slight slope of scree that led up to the base of the rock face. Sgurr Fiona towered above him, its peaks already lost in the greyness of the clouds. He stopped for a second to take in its grandeur, and as he looked up, he paused. Until now, only the images of the death, the violent impact of the man’s body hitting the ground, had occupied his thoughts. But the initial shock was starting to wear off,, and he began to recognize a meaning behind what he had seen; an explanation, perhaps. Had the other man recognized it, also, in those last, long terrifying seconds? Had he, too, acknowledged what it might mean? Either way, it was just him, now, standing alone on this empty, windswept heath, who possessed this wisdom, this secret, entrusted to him by another man’s death. He looked up at Sgurr Fiona once again, but the sky below the clouds was empty.
     He approached the body and forced himself to look down at the broken, rag-doll form. It was clear the man had died on impact. The damage seemed to be mostly to the head and face. It was difficult to even make out the features now. He shook his head. It was as if the fates themselves had determined to cloak the death in a double layer of mystery: not only of who the dead man was, but of what he had looked like in life.
     The man felt a momentary wave of sadness for the empty shape at his feet. All that was left of Jack de Laet, with whom he had drunk, and laughed, and swapped lies — and unknowingly, a few truths too — over the previous few weeks. He was a bad man, Jack, one of the worst. But he had been a person, a living, breathing human being. And now he was … what? The man didn’t have time to consider the question. Musing about the afterlife, the great beyond, was for a warm pub, where he would head after this, for a hot meal and a glass of single malt whisky and the comfort of a gently burning fire. Out here, at the base of a granite rock face, under a low, roiling, gunmetal sky, he had work to do.
     He knelt beside the body and slowly began to withdraw the day pack from beneath Jack de Laet’s stiffening form. He worked with great care. He couldn’t see any blood coming from under the body, but if there was any, he knew the small pack could disturb it, smear it, perhaps in a way that a good forensic examiner might be able to detect. He breathed a sigh of relief when the pack finally slithered free showing no traces of blood. He lifted it to one side and peered in. “Ah Jack, you lied to me,” he said quietly, without malice. Using a handkerchief, he withdrew a book from his canvas shoulder bag. It was battered and dog-eared, with a long-faded cover from which the images of a couple of birds, well-drawn and easily identifiable, stared back at him. He took a pen from his pocket and wrote two words on the flyleaf, holding the cover open with the handkerchief. Then he leaned forward to delicately lift the flap on one of De Laet’s jacket pockets. He slid the book in.
     He patted the pocket slightly as he closed the flap and rose from his kneeling position clutching the small day pack.
     “See you soon,” he said. But he wasn’t talking to Jack de Laet.

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Why it's on the list ...
Burrows was no spring chicken when he released his debut novel three years ago, which won the Arthur Ellis Award for first book. He'd been busy pursuing his birdwatching hobby on five continents and writing articles on travel and environmental issues for magazines and newspapers around the world before settling down to authorship. And it's going well—the third book in his Birder Murder Mystery series is out right now and it's getting great reviews.
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