The Sunday Post, Issue #286

The Sunday Post is a weekly event hosted by Caffeinated Reviewer.

The Editorial

Winter has unofficially descended upon us, and I can feel it creeping into my very bones. The skies have turned gray, drenching the earth in relentless rain that seems to echo my own mood. As if that weren't enough, I've been dealt an unwelcome companion: a whopper of a strep throat that decided to crash my party. I'm currently engulfed in a quest for relief, surrounding myself with home remedies that would make your grandmother proud. With a to-do list that's growing longer by the minute—errands to run, dust bunnies to evict, pies to bake, and the formidable task of cooking Thanksgiving dinner looming over me—I’m less than thrilled to be fighting off illness. Yes, I’ve been elected the head chef this year, and I’m not even sure how that happened!

In brighter news, my mother made it through her surgery on November 12th, and she’s on the mend. Thanks to all the well-wishers—your prayers and good thoughts really do mean a lot. This Thanksgiving will be a cozy affair—just my parents, an uncle, and me conjuring up a feast that’ll either be a success or a culinary horror show.

As if the universe needed to pile on more chaos, the ancient furnace decided to send its final wheezing breath into the chilly air. There were crossroads: wrestle with replacing the blower motor yet again, or fork over thirteen grand for a brand-new HVAC system. Opted for the latter, and let me tell you, the installation took all day—relentless hours filled with the clanging of tools and the cries of a bank account weeping. Yes, it was a financial hit, but in the freezing grip of winter, heat is non-negotiable.

Tonight, we saddle up and ride into the rugged world of John Slocum—a gunfighter who's perpetually caught in the whirlwind of chaos, always arriving at the right place but the wrong time, plunging headfirst into deadly scrapes while simultaneously managing a dalliance or two with the local ladies of ill repute. Slocum is no ordinary hero; he’s the star of the first American western paperback series under the bold banner of “adult western,” launched by Playboy Press in 1975 and galloping through to 2014, with its final entries published by Jove. A staggering total of 437 books, including the “Giant” installments, make up this raucous saga. The name “Jake Logan” was a mere house pen name, shrouding the creativity of at least thirty-four different authors crafting Slocum’s misadventures.

This brings me to my latest literary escapade: Blood River, boldly advertised on the cover as the 166th installment, though, in truth, it holds the spot of book 156, having been released in December 1992 by Berkley. The identity of the true author remains elusive, wrapped in mystery like a lonesome cowboy's faded bandana. If anyone has the lowdown on who penned this one, do throw a rope my way!

Now, you'd think that breezing through a 184-page tale shouldn't take me over a week, but for reasons I can't quite pin down, I struggled to get into Blood Fever. Don’t get me wrong—I'm an ardent fan of Slocum's brazen spirit! Yet, the by-the-numbers narrative felt as though the author was working from a checklist handed down by some uninspired publisher. It lacked the spark and fire one expects from a Western; it was as if the writer hadn’t much care for what they were crafting, perhaps never having penned a Western or, dare I say, even skimmed through a Slocum adventure. It's not that the story is utterly bad—it just feels like one of those less-than-stellar episodes of Gunsmoke—the ones that, while not your favorites, still manage to stick with you like a stubborn tumbleweed.

Welcome to the Book Blogger Hop!

This Week's Prompt:

My Answer:

In my little town, there’s a single public library. I pop in from time to time, drawn by the promise of free books. The air is thick with the scent of aged paper and quiet secrets; each visit is a delightful escape into the unknown. I know where the libraries are in the nearby towns—like old ghosts haunting my periphery—but for reasons I can’t quite explain, they remain unexplored territories. 

〜B.J. Burgess

Hello, my fellow Friday 56ers! It feels good to be back after taking a little hiatus last week. Life threw me a curveball with my mother’s surgery on the 12th, but I'm happy to report that she’s back home and on the mend. Taking care of her and juggling other responsibilities kept me busy—I'll spill the full details in my upcoming Sunday Post, so stay tuned for that.

For those who might not know, 'The Friday 56' is a bookish meme hosted by My Head is Full of Books, where we share snippets from our current or future reads to indulge our fellow book lovers. This week, I’m featuring the sprawling pages of Tom's Crossing by Mark Z. Danielewski—a hefty neo-western that tips the scale at around 1,229 pages.

Yep, it's a behemoth! I’m gearing up to tackle this literary mountain over the next few days, with an eye towards posting my review on November 29th for a special Gunsmoke & Grit feature. Wish me luck; I have a feeling I’m going to need it!

Welcome to the Book Blogger Hop!

This Week's Prompt:

Are you good at guessing plot twists?

My Answer:

Regrettably, I've been saddled with a peculiar gift—or perhaps it's more of a curse, depending on how you look at it. I can spot plot twists from a mile away. This wasn’t something I was born with, mind you; it’s a skill honed over countless nights spent devouring everything from spine-chilling horror to the fluffiest romances. Somewhere along my literary journey, I wandered off the beaten path and straight into a land where surprise endings became as predictable as the sunrise. 

Now, while my fellow book bloggers gasp at cliffhangers and drop their popcorn during shocking revelations, I merely nod, smirking to myself like a cat that just caught the canary. I've become the literary version of a fortune teller, except instead of crystal balls, I wield a library card and an overflowing bookshelf. Each turn of the page is a familiar dance, and honestly, sometimes I miss the thrill of being utterly blindsided—if only for the sake of nostalgia.

〜B.J. Burgess

One Flew Over the Cuckoo's Nest, the iconic 1975 film directed by Milos Forman and featuring Jack Nicholson in an unforgettable Academy Award-winning role, is set to make a grand re-entry into our lives—this time digitally in 4K ULTRA HD and on 4K UHD Blu-ray Disc, hitting shelves on November 11th, just in time for the 50th anniversary of its initial release on November 19, 1975. This restoration was lovingly crafted by the Academy Film Archive, with a little help from Teatro Della Pace Film and the ever-passionate producer Paul Zaentz. Picture this: a brand-new 4K scan taken straight from the original 35mm camera negative, complete with a dusting of magic for the opening shot and titles. It’s not a full-fledged reconstruction, but boy, does it deliver a stunning upgrade from the standard Blu-ray editions that had us longing for just a tad more clarity. And let me tell you, it’s presented in the film’s original 1.85:1 aspect ratio, which feels just right.

Based on Ken Kesey's gripping 1962 novel of the same name, this film isn’t just a story about a misfit—it's about the fight for autonomy in the face of a stifling system. Our protagonist, Randle McMurphy (played with manic brilliance by Jack Nicholson), feigns mental illness to find himself inside a mental hospital, where a motley crew of patients becomes his unlikely family. But lo and behold, there’s Nurse Mildred Ratched (Louise Fletcher), a force of nature who embodies the very definition of control and conformity, making even the most hardened inmate seem like a puppy in her presence.

The film swept the Academy Awards, claiming all five of the premier Oscars: Best Picture, Best Actor for Nicholson, Best Actress for Fletcher, Best Director for Forman, and Best Screenplay for Hauben and Goldman. Its colorful history doesn't end there; it began life as a stage play in 1963, with Kirk Douglas portraying McMurphy—a journey that he kick-started by securing the rights to bring Kesey’s world to the stage and screen. And in 1993, the United States Library of Congress deemed this film "culturally, historically, or aesthetically significant," ensuring its place in the National Film Registry for all time.

The Sunday Post, Issue #285

The Sunday Post is a weekly event hosted by Caffeinated Reviewer.

The Editorial

Ah, my fellow readers, if you’ve been paying any attention at all—or perhaps if you merely wondered where my weekly musings disappeared to—you might have noticed that my Sunday Post has been on a rather prolonged hiatus. This absence stems from a multitude of reasons, though I’m not one for airing out all my dirty laundry. Let’s just say that cranking out 62 horror-related posts in a single month has left me feeling like a ghost whose candle has burned dim. Burnout, thy name is writer. Moral of the story: never again will I enter such a marathon.

So yes, the lack of posts last week was largely due to me needing a breather. I’m aiming to muster the energy to pre-schedule a few reviews, the Friday 56, and the Book Blogger Hop over the next 24 hours or so. My mother is facing surgery this Wednesday. We need to be at the hospital before the crack of dawn, with the docs wanting to run tests and draw blood before she has the procedure. I’m still in the dark about when the actual surgery will start or how long it might stretch out. I’ve heard whispers that it could be anything from an hour to four, depending on how the surgical gods decide to favor us. Will she come home that same day? Only time will tell; it all hinges on how the operation unfolds.

In preparation for this hospital expedition, I found myself on a quest: searching for a proper book bag. Yes, a book bag—those student-style slings that were once my constant companion. It’s been over twenty-five years since I last donned one! Finding the right bag in my neck of the woods was no small feat, and of course, it didn’t come cheap. Why the sudden need for a bag, you ask? Well, it’s all about practicality. My mom needs a few essentials, and I’ll be the one to cart them around. I’m packing my Kindle Fire—loaded with a few flicks, such as Once Upon a Time in Hollywood, Blazing Saddles, and Holiday Inn—along with a couple of paperbacks and my trusty earbuds. Snacks? Nah, I’ll place my faith in the hospital’s vending machine or, if I’m lucky, their coffee machine. Heaven forbid I get lost on the way to a cafeteria—I'm not prepared to navigate a labyrinth when I should be channeling my inner calm.

Through Gunsmoke & Grit, I'm excited to share my musings on fictional Wild West tales. However, I occasionally wander into the realm of nonfiction, like with Brothers of the Gun: Wyatt Earp, Doc Holliday, and a Reckoning in Tombstone by Mark Lee Gardner—set to gallop its way into bookstores on November 11, 2025, courtesy of Dutton. I was fortunate enough to snag a digital ARC from NetGalley many moons ago, and I deliberately refrained from reviewing it until just the right moment, when the publication date was close enough for a proper showdown.

Given the title, you can probably guess that this book is about the lives of Wyatt Earp and Doc Holliday—those legendary gunfighters whose names have been etched into the annals of history thanks to a thirty-second shootout at a little spot known as the O.K. Corral. But their storied friendship didn't kick off in that fateful moment in 1881; oh no! It all began back in the raucous cattle town of Dodge City three years earlier. Picture this: Wyatt, an assistant city marshal, is outnumbered by a pack of rowdy, armed cowboys. Meanwhile, Doc is comfortably perched at a monte table in the Long Branch saloon, a man of leisure—until he spots Wyatt's trouble. In true heroic fashion, Doc bursts out, two revolvers drawn, shouting, “Throw up your hands!” Startled, the cowboys comply, and off they are led to jail. Wyatt credited Doc with saving his skin that day, igniting a friendship as volatile as gunpowder.

Happy November, my fellow book bloggers, avid bibliophiles, and casual page-flippers! After a few weeks of radio silence on the Friday 56 front—a little break that I convinced myself would lighten the load of weekly posts—I’m back from a brief hiatus. This past week, I took some much-needed time off to recuperate from a relentless flu bug and a shoulder and back injury that made me feel like I’d gone a few rounds with a particularly cranky poltergeist. Reading has been a struggle lately, and let’s face it, my literary journey has been more tortoise than hare. But fear not, I’m determined to rise like a phoenix from the ashes of my reading rut.

For those unfamiliar, 'The Friday 56' is an awesome meme hosted by My Head is Full of Books, where we gather snippets from our current reads to share with our fellow bookworms. This week, I’m featuring The Land of Sweet Forever by none other than Harper Lee, whose latest posthumous book combines eight newly unearthed short stories with eight essays and pieces that previously graced the pages of magazines. I had to hunt down a copy because my local bookstores seem to moonlight as YA fantasy museums, where dusty tomes sit neglected on the shelves like sad little orphans.

So here I am, eager to indulge in Lee's words, but I’m taking my sweet time—no speed-reading for this book! I want to savor every sentence. I’ve only made it through the introduction by Casey Cep, but I can already sense I’m in for a treat.

Welcome to the Book Blogger Hop!

This Week's Prompt:

How many "book" bags do you have? Do you use all of them?

My Answer:

I might be the odd duck in this literary flock, but when it comes to "book" bags, my collection is modest—just two humble totes from Half Price Books. These aren't your run-of-the-mill accessories; each bag is a worn testament to my sporadic pilgrimages to the hallowed aisles of a bookstore that feels like a cozy haven rather than a retail space. I venture there only once or twice a year, armed with a thirst for stories and a penchant for buried treasure among the dusty shelves. Those bags sit in my closet, biding their time for my next bookish adventure.

〜B.J. Burgess

Writing is often romanticized as a constant flow of ideas, sitting at the desk, fingers flying across the keyboard. But in reality, inspiration doesn’t strike continually, and even the most prolific writers find creativity fades when they push too hard. For writers to stay inspired, they need downtime. They need deliberate pauses in the routine where ideas can recharge, perspectives can shift, and the mind can wander.

The Case for Rest

When we work without pause, our creative reserves run low. Some recent commentary notes that downtime is an essential part of the writer’s toolkit. Writers who schedule rest, hobbies, walks, or even idle time report coming back to the page with fresh energy and sharper insight. Research shows that when the brain is allowed to drop out of active focus and enter its “default mode network,” it processes ideas quietly in the background. This is often where breakthroughs happen.

How Downtime Fuels Creativity

• Space for incubation: You may think writing is about effort alone, but often ideas don’t fully mature in the moment of writing. Giving yourself a break allows your mind to connect dots unconsciously and let ideas germinate.

• Avoiding burnout: Constant work dulls sensitivity. Once you’re tired, words lose their nuance and the rhythm of writing falters. Downtime protects the quality of the work by preserving your energy.

• Different modes of thinking: Active writing taps into focused thinking; downtime invites diffuse thinking. Both are necessary. The focused mode gets the work done; the downtime mode inspires the work.

• Perspective shift: Whether in nature, doing something completely unrelated, or just uncluttering your day, being away from the desk allows you to return and see your writing with fresh eyes. You may spot themes or connections you couldn’t while immersed.

If anyone's curious, let me set the record straight: I’m not parting with the Gunsmoke & Grit posts anytime soon. Life threw a couple of curveballs my way last month—too many reviews of non-Western books and a persistent flu bug that refused to take a hike. But fear not, those days are behind me. My goal is to serve up a fresh Western fiction review every Saturday for the foreseeable future. Now that we’ve got that out of the way, it’s time to talk about today’s review: These Men Chose Hell, penned by William W. Johnstone and J.A. Johnstone. Or, let’s be honest, likely a ghostwriter or a cabal of ghostwriters who conjured this tale from the ether. It’s a sequel to Fort Misery, and I must say, it reads as if it were penned by a different hand altogether. As I traverse the shadows of my mind, the prose felt just a touch off, like an old photograph that’s been left too long in the sun. Maybe it’s just me.

Fort Misery—the name alone evokes an image of grim determination. Here, the lowliest dregs of the U.S. Army stand guard against a hellscape of lawless desert, facing off against the most sadistic scourges of the Wild West. It’s a brutal truth: sometimes, it takes a bad man with a gun to confront another. These aren’t your classic “good guys.” Instead, they’re a ragtag band of deserters, thieves, mutineers, and the like, none of whom are exactly examples of virtue. Condemned soldiers in an overstretched army, their choices are grim: death by hanging or serving their time in this hell on earth. They chose hell. Nestled at the far reaches of the Yuma Desert, Fort Grierson attracts trouble like a moth to a flame. Daily skirmishes with marauding Apaches and gunslinging outlaws are the norm, and the men fortifying the place are barely better. Hence, the notorious nickname: Fort Misery. When a gaggle of professors arrives at the fort, all hell breaks loose. The men of Fort Misery must uncover the lurking menace before they all end up meeting a grisly fate...

Welcome to the Book Blogger Hop!

This Week's Prompt:

Have you ever been haunted by a book's plot or character?

My Answer:

No, I can't say I've ever been literally haunted by a book. However, there have certainly been books that have stolen my sleep. Some of them fall into the horror genre, though not because they sent shivers down my spine—rather, they ensnared my mind with their tales, refusing to let go. 

When that happens, I find myself tiptoeing out of bed, the comforter still tangled around my legs, as I sneak back to the comforting glow of my reading nook. The pages beckon me, whispering secrets and cliffhangers, daring me to find out what comes next. Like a moth drawn to the flickering light, I continue reading, caught in the gripping grip of a story that won’t let me rest until dawn. In the end, perhaps I’ve been haunted after all—by the thrill of gripping stories that still echo long after the last page is turned.

〜B.J. Burgess