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The literary icon made famous for her classic novel To Kill a Mockingbird. . Historical Fiction writer best known for her Booker-winning novels Wolf Hall and .. sixty percent of your list which is loaded with light weight best seller bookclub pap. Our favorite historical fiction books—The Girls in the Picture, by Melanie Sarah Selecky's Radiant Shimmering Light introduces us to Lilian Quick, who is hey Friends, These are lists of few books which are suitable for beginners as these books will be easy to comprehend and will give almost new.

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Roy's Magnum Opus won the Booker Prize award in and till date stands as This best selling novel has sold over a million copies till date and written by .. His books are good for entertainment, light reading, and one should read his. Main / Transportation / Google book er lite world, I enjoy traveling, reading science fiction books and manga, watching movies, and photography. More. Genre fiction, also known as popular fiction, is a term used in the book-trade for fictional works . travel, time travel, faster than light travel, parallel universes and extraterrestrial life. In the s, the BBC defended itself against charges that it had sneered at genre fiction, while the Man Booker and National Book Awards.

Romance Fiction 4. The moment he tried to touch her uncovered thigh , he was thrusted with a tight slap on his right cheek. The beautiful woman sitting in his front cursed him and stormed out of the cafe. The nymphomaniac within him took a break again and he could not even sleep. He had to take revenge for the slap. How dare she hit him like that?

But then, so did everything right now. Soon it would be getting dark. Wren sat on the floor cross-legged, keeping an eye on George as he hunched forward on the couch, elbows balanced on his knees, and the gun held loosely in his right hand. She tore open the last packet of Fig Newtons—all that was left of the basket of snacks taken from the recovery room. Her stomach growled. She used to be afraid of the dark.

Sometimes she woke up crying in the middle of the night convinced she had seen something fanged and terrible sitting at the foot of her bed, watching her with its yellow eyes.

Now she knew: monsterswere real. Wren swallowed. The vehemence of his words made her scoot back a few feet, but as she did, her leg brushed something cold and rigid. She knew right away what it was—who it was—and swallowed her scream. Wren willed herself to inch forward again, curling her arms around her bent knees. She lied. Janine sat in the police station, across from the detective who was recording her statement, and lied.

The rest that she had told him was true, and sounded like a horror film: the sound of gunfire, the sudden weight of the clinic employee slamming into her and knocking her to the floor. Even now, looking down at her hands, she expected to see it.

Instead of linked moments, there were only flashes: her body shaking uncontrollably as she ran; her hands pressed against the bullet wound of an injured woman. The shooter jerking his pistol at Janine, while Izzy stood next to him with a heap of supplies in her arms.

The phone ringing, as they all froze like mannequins. Janine felt like she was watching a movie, one she was obligated to sit through even though she had never wanted to see it. When she got to the part where the shooter smacked her with the gun, she left out why. It was a sin, too, but of a different degree. Still, sometimes you lied to protect people. Sometimes you lied to protect yourself. What was one more lie to add to the others?

She was crying as she spoke. Janine nodded. She blew her nose and balled the tissue into her hand. Suddenly the door opened, and a uniformed officer stuck his head inside. Allen was the leader of the local Right to Life group. This, though, was different. Allen would not have been able to make peace with himself if anything had happened to her, because he had been the one to send her inside as a spy.

Maybe God had been listening, because she had been released. But so were Joy, and Izzy, and Dr. What kind of capricious God would roll the dice like that? She had done what he wanted from the moment she arrived in town, intent to serve his mission any way she could.

And she knew that he meant well. He was offering her a choice; and it felt heady and powerful. She just needed space, for a second. At the end of the hallway was another interrogation room, much like the one she had been in.

What had been a mirror on the inside was, from this vantage point, a window. Joy sat at a table with a female detective. Before she realized what she was doing, Janine was knocking at the window. The interrogation room door swung open, and a moment later a female detective looked at her. After a moment, Joy nodded. I wanted to see. In the hospital room, there was a piece of tape stuck to one of the slats of the air-conditioning vent overhead. Then they both saw it—the flicker of a heartbeat.

The doctor took measurements and recorded them. He wiped the gel off her belly and pulled the drape down to cover her again. Definitely takes after its mama. Izzy lay back on the gurney and slipped her hands underneath the scratchy blanket.

She flattened them on her stomach. As soon as she had gotten outside the clinic, the EMTs had put her on a stretcher beside Dr. He would have none of it. Ward said to the young paramedic inspecting his tourniquet. She wondered if he was in surgery; if he would keep the leg. She had a good feeling about it. Maybe some people simply were destined to survive.

She had grown up with a chronically unemployed father and a mother who struggled to take care of Izzy and her twin brothers, in a house so small that the three kids shared not just a room but a bed. Her mother would take them on a spare change hunt. Occasionally they celebrated Colonial Week—when they used candles instead of electric lights.

When Izzy thought about her life, there was such a clear break between then and now. Now, she lived with Parker in a house three times larger than her childhood home. They had met when he was in traction with a broken leg. Their first date, he liked to say, had been a sponge bath. Parker had gone to Yale like his father and grandfather and great-grandfather. He had grown up in Eastover, the snobbiest neighborhood in the whole state. He went to private schools and dressed in miniature blazers and ties even as a child.

He summered. Even his job—a documentary filmmaker—was possible only because of his trust fund. Izzy still ordered the cheapest thing on a menu if they ate out. They might as well have come from different planets. How on earth were they supposed to raise a child together? Izzy wondered if now—finally—the fault line of her life would no longer be the first day she earned a paycheck.

A nurse entered the cubicle. The woman. Bex something? Thank God. She had been covered in Dr. She helped Izzy off the gurney and led her through the curtain to a single-person bathroom. She closed the door and locked it, leaned against the wood.

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Her teeth were chattering now. Textbook shock. Her hair had long ago escaped its braid and was a hot red frizz around her face. The scrubs they had given her to replace the bloody ones she had been wearing when she was brought in were too big, and the top was slipping off one shoulder, like a really poor version of a sexy nurse fantasy.

Although she had washed off most of the blood that covered her arms and neck, she could see the spots she had missed. She scrubbed until her skin was raw and then walked back to her little cubicle. Hovering outside the curtain was a police officer. I was hoping you might be able to just give a short statement? But she only noticed that when she touched him, she finally stopped shaking. Maybe there was a way to stop worrying about what might drive them apart, and to focus on what bound them together.

She nodded against him. There were dozens of questions written across his features, and he stared into her eyes as if he were trying to find the answers.

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Or the truth. Maybe they were even, for once, the same. This was not how—or where—she had thought her day would end. But somehow, it was exactly where she needed to be. She took his hand and flattened it against her belly, smiling.

When one of the junior detectives brought the word that his older sister Bex was out of surgery, Hugh winged a silent thank-you to a God he had long ago stopped believing in. The part of his brain that had been worrying about her could go back to focusing on Wren, who was still in there with a murderer. First the two women had been released. Then the nurse and the injured abortion doctor. Hugh had waited. And waited. He paced the command center from where he had made the call to give the shooter a few more minutes, in the hope he would make good on his promise to release all the hostages.

The question was, had he made a bad decision? A fatal one, for Wren? He released most of them.

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You go in there and we both know how this will end. What if George had agreed to release the hostages, planning all along to go back on his word? What if he wanted to go out in a blaze of bullets, and take Wren with him? Was this going to be his ultimate fuck-you to Hugh? Quandt met his gaze. And then I will do everything in my power to make sure she is safe. It rang and rang and rang.

Pick up,Hugh thought. After eighteen rings, he was about to hang up. He remembered when she was a toddler, and she had fallen. If Hugh looked upset, Wren would burst into tears. If he seemed unfazed, she picked herself up and kept going.

Hugh curled his body around the phone, like he was whispering to a lover. You know that. Either I go to jail and rot there forever or they shoot me.

You end this, and you get to do the right thing. Your daughter—hell, the whole world—will be watching, George. That definitely sounded like a threat. Hugh glanced at the SWAT team commander. Quandt was staring at him from the corner of the tent. He lifted his arm, pointed to his watch. Just like that, he knew what to do. Hugh looked at the captain. There was no way Quandt would go for this. It was too risky. Hugh would lose his job—maybe his life—but his daughter would be safe.

There was really no choice. She turned her head a fraction to the left and saw the IV pole, the saline dripping into her. The light overhead was fluorescent. A hospital. She was the very opposite of dead.

Her throat tightened as she thought about Wren and about Hugh.

Was her niece all right? She imagined Wren, knee bent, drawing on the white lip of her sneaker. She pictured Hugh leaning over her in the ambulance.

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That was how Bex saw the world, in images. Had she re-created it in her studio, she would call it Reckoning. The background would be the color of a bruise. Bex had installations with collectors as far away as Chicago and California. Her works were the size of a wall. If you stood at a distance you might see a feminine hand on a pregnant belly. A baby reaching for a mobile overhead. A woman in the throes of labor. Comments are not for promoting your articles or other sites. I read 'God of the Small Things' twice.

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It sure is a great work written by Arundhati Roy. I haven't read any books by the other authors in your hub yet. I should pick it up soon. Thanks Neha to appreciate the hub Jhumpa is brilliant and so are others Thank you for this hub Seema! I absolutely adore Jhumpa Lahiri's work. She makes the stories sound so personal and relatable. I became a fan when I first read 'Interpreter of Maladies'. And then 'Unaccustomed Earth' totally bowled me over.

Isn't she brilliant?

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I've picked up some more of her works - The Lowland, Namesake. Can't wait to read them. Other product and company names shown may be trademarks of their respective owners.

The Best Books of 2018

HubPages and Hubbers authors may earn revenue on this page based on affiliate relationships and advertisements with partners including site, Google, and others. HubPages Inc, a part of Maven Inc. As a user in the EEA, your approval is needed on a few things. To provide a better website experience, owlcation. Please choose which areas of our service you consent to our doing so. For more information on managing or withdrawing consents and how we handle data, visit our Privacy Policy at: Seema more.

Arundhati Roy. download Now. Jhumpa Lahiri. Official Video Trailer of the Movie 'Namesake'. Kiran Desai. Anita Desai. Anita Desai has been shortlisted for the Booker Prize three times: In she was shortlisted for this prestigious award for her novel Clear Light of Day. In she got nominated for her novel In Custody.

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In this novel was adapted into an English film by the same name. In she was again shortlisted for the Booker prize for fiction Fasting, Feasting. Nayantara Sahgal. Female Writers with Creative Skill and Intellectual Mind These five female Indian writers are known for their creative fictional and nonfiction work in English. Happy reading to you: Sign In Join. Connect with us. This website uses cookies As a user in the EEA, your approval is needed on a few things.

I set out to create a list of 50 essential female authors, and upon hitting 50 in under five minutes I decided to shoot for It wasn't a hard list to fill - what was hard was choosing just I cringe to think of the names that were omitted please, tell us in the comment section. How do we change this? We start with the obvious - we read women. What started as a nudge encouraging friends to read female authors became a powerful movement to raise awareness in the book industry and encourage publishers, distributors, and promoters to pull women writers into the spotlight so readers like you and I could better discover them.

If step one is to read women, then step two is to talk about them - to review them, to critique them, to press their books into the hands of our book-loving friends. Whatever stage you're at in the endeavor to read more women, here are talented female authors to get you started or keep you going. We suspect the list will grow longer in the comments section, so please do give those a read and leave your own suggestions!

The author of Room of One's Own is considered a pioneer in the use of stream of consciousness as a narrative device. Before publishing her iconic book Little Women in , Alcott wrote under the pen name A.

The eldest Bronte sister and author of Jane Eyre first published her works under the pen name Currer Bell. Wuthering Heights, Emily's only novel and a staple of English Literature, was origianlly published under a male pen name Ellis Bell. The American expat molded young writers and artists including Hemingway, Fitzgerald, and Picasso. Her most famous work is The Autobiography of Alice B.

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Made famous for her creation of literature's favourite wizard, Rowling branched out with The Casual Vacancy.

The American novelist, short-story writer, and literary critic as awarded the Pulitzer Prize for her novel Breathing Lessons. The recipient of multiple Hugo and Nebula awards, Butler was also the first science fiction writer to receive the prestigious MacArthur Fellowship. The children and YA novel writer addressed taboo topics like birth control and menstration in books like Are You There God?

It's Me, Margaret. Phyllis Dorothy James was an English crime writer best known for her series of detective novels starring police commander and poet Adam Dalgliesh. The American writer was known for her novels of frontier life on the Great Plains, including O Pioneers!