Gifts of the Season, a postscript

Did she like it? people have asked. Did Madeline like her gift?

I'll let you be the judge. :)

Gifts of the Season, a story

“New hockey gloves,” said ten-year-old Jackson. “That’s what I want to buy with my money.” Our family was driving to one of Jack’s hockey games the day after an early Christmas celebration, during which both kids had received a crisp fifty dollar bill from their Papa Jones. They were pondering what they might do with that kind of loot.

“How about you, Madeline?” I asked our daughter, age seven.

Silence from the backseat while she considered the question. Then a happy gasp. “I know! I’ll buy Benny.”

Scott and I chuckled. Benny played goalie for Jackson’s team and as such had recently secured our daughter’s admiration. At an out-of-state tournament a few weeks earlier, we’d gotten to know Benny and his dad, Pat, a bit—well enough to know that the pink ribbon tattooed on Pat’s arm honored his wife, now two years breast cancer-free. And to know that Pat was a stay-at-home dad, while his wife, a physician, supported the family. All of which we found pretty cool.

When we saw Pat at the game, we relayed Madeline’s wish. Pat grinned. “There are days when Benny’s for sale,” he said. We laughed.

Three days later, at the boys’ next practice, Pat approached me as I huddled beneath my blanket on the chilly rink bleachers. He handed me a manila envelope. Puzzled, I slid its contents into my hand—an 8x10 glossy of goalie Benny sprawled across the ice as he blocked an opponent’s shot. And on the back, his signature: Merry Christmas. Ben #19.

I looked up at Pat. “For Madeline?” I asked and he nodded. I felt warm, despite my frosty surroundings, touched by Pat’s playful thoughtfulness. Discovering the autographed photo beneath the tree on Christmas would certainly make our daughter’s day. But more than that, I recognized the gesture as the gift of friendship—in any year, at any age, one of the very best gifts of the season.

Christmas 1932, memoir excerpt

And now for the conclusion of Alice Anderson's Christmas tale...

Christmas 1932, Part 5

When all were seated at the table Papa nodded to John and me. In unison we repeated our Swedish table prayer. And then the feast began. Hot, steaming fruit soup, rich rice porridge, lutefisk with potatoes and white cream sauce, then came the sausage, meat balls, scalloped corn, brown beans, pickled pigs feet, jellies, pickles, rye bread, and finally the array of Christmas cookies and fruit cake along with the Swedish dessert, kräm.

We ate for a long time. Then it was time for the Christmas tree candles to be lit. Mama had three milk pails of water close by, just in case.

But first, Papa picked up the English Bible, the one with all the pictures, and he read the Christmas story from Luke 2. Then he prayed, thanking God for sending the Savior to lost mankind. His amen was echoed by Sivert’s hearty response. Amen!
Jimmy shifted nervously and then said, “Been a long time since I heard that read. And Otto, you read real good in English. In fact, you read better than you talk. I didn’t know you had schooling in this country.” Papa reached for the box of matches he had laid on the bookcase. “I taught myself,” he replied.

To see the candles burning on the Christmas tree was like watching the angels on the first Christmas night. It was glorious! Mama had other opinions regarding burning candles on the tree. Every thirty seconds she would say, “I think you can blow them out now.” But Papa waited until a third of the candle was gone, and then we helped him blow out the candles.
There was a package for each one in a bag that Santa Claus or the Swedish tomte had dropped on the front porch. Jimmy and Rod got new socks, hand knit, and Martha gazed delightedly at the box of handkerchiefs. Sivert was pleased with the new necktie.

We played pick-up sticks with Rod while Papa and Mama visited. Then it was time for our guests to go home. Their coats had been hung near the kitchen stove. Lanterns were lit and Rod decided he would walk the road with the Torgersons. Jimmy would find the path across Carlson’s field to his shack.

Tonight our guests had entered and departed through the front door. Otherwise, on ordinary days, everyone came to the back door. We stood shivering in the crisp December air, watching our guests leave.

Mama was especially pleased as she began to clean up the kitchen. Papa began reviewing the evening. “So, I read better than I talk!” And he laughed heartily. Little brother John had noticed that Martha warned Sivert not to use too much pepper on his lutefisk. He would remember that on Christmas Eve for the years to come whenever he ate his lutefisk.
Joy to the world had come to our home and to four of our lonely neighbors that Christmas Eve. I would remember that night as one of the happiest Christmases ever.

Comment from the coach: In concluding her story of that long-ago Christmas, Alice again allows the facts to tell the tale. She gives us a great example of when less is more, and her conclusion serves as an effective reminder that simplicity is often sublime.

Christmas 1932, memoir excerpt

The penultimate installment of Alice Anderson's story...

Christmas 1932, Part 4

The Torgersons were old, at least in their seventies, and they were Seventh Day Adventists and Norwegian. They didn’t hold with frivolities and did not even acknowledge Christmas. Papa said he was sure they would come, if only to remember their childhood in Norway where they, too, had eaten lutefisk and pickled herring. We invited them and they accepted. We walked on to call on Rod, munching on the thick sugar cookies Martha Torgerson was famous for.

Rod’s farm looked like a picture out of a story book. Gates hung straight, the mowing machine was under cover, harnesses and bridles hung uniformly by the horse stalls. Everything about the farm was neat. We sat down in his little house and explained our purpose. “Christmas Eve? Sure, I’ll come up after I’ve done the chores. That’ll be nice. Christmas Day I’m walking to Clear Lake to be with Mother and Rose.”

One more to go. Jimmy Trotter. Why had the folks invited Jimmy? I wondered if Jimmy knew he should clean up before he came. He often worked for us during spring plowing. Jimmy walked with a decided limp, and he had other ailments too. Mama often voiced concern for him. “Probably the way he eats,” she would mutter.

We stood on the rambling porch. There was no chance of being invited inside. Even Jimmy, who was certainly no socialite, smiled broadly when invited. “Been a long time since I really celebrated Christmas Eve,” he said.

On Christmas Eve day we skipped along the cow trails to the woods. We would cut our Christmas tree, the one we had pruned and cared for since it was just a tiny tree. The wooden stand Papa had made the first year they had been on the farm was retrieved from the attic. The tree stood nude and green in the front room. Papa was in charge of clipping the candle holders onto the branches. Mama arranged the decorations. We put the candles into the holders.

The table was ready, food had been prepared for many days. John and I peeked through the front room curtains for our guests to arrive. We could see the lantern carried by Sivert Torgerson, swinging slowly, as they trudged up the road. Across the field and toward the woods we caught glimpses of Rod’s lantern. He would probably arrive before the slow going Torgersons. A knock at the door announced Jimmy’s arrival.

Comment from the coach: I love how Alice weaves snippets of dialogue into her tale to capture the personalities involved. Dialogue is one of the most powerful tools in a writer’s box, allowing writers to show, not tell.

Christmas 1932, memoir excerpt

The continuation of Alice Anderson's remembrance of a Christmas long past.

Christmas 1932, Part 3

In between all of the preparations, we practiced our Christmas recitations for the Sunday school program at the Swedish Mission church in town. Our clothes for that occasion were new, though often they were made over from the city cousins’ castoffs. New shoes were a must. The money for them came from the proceeds from the bean patch behind the barn.

So the month’s preparations continued. No mention was made about company for Christmas Eve. Then one Saturday morning at the breakfast table, the subject was brought up.

“This year we can’t go to Seattle at Christmas, and they aren’t able to come here, so Papa and I have decided to invite some of the neighbors.” Mama was interrupted by her inquisitive children. “Who?” Some would be out of the question. Imagine inviting the Russian family with all those kids, or some of the others who wouldn’t think of eating lutefisk.

“We’re going to ask the old folks Torgersons, and Rodney Stevens, and Jimmy Trotter.” Mama spoke definitely and Papa concurred. Not a kid among them! What kind of a Christmas Eve was this going to be!

“You can walk with Papa this morning to invite them.” This was Mama’s last word as we got ready to call on our neighbors.

Comment from the coach: Here, Alice returns to the problem—a Christmas her family must spend apart from loved ones—and presents the solution…which in turn presents a new problem, at least for young Alice. A Christmas without kids! Again, the author doesn’t dwell on her emotional reaction to this turn of events but allows her spare retelling to capture the conflict.

Christmas 1932, memoir excerpt

Continuing with Alice Anderson's remembrance of a long-ago Christmas in the Northwest...

Christmas 1932, Part 2

As the days went by, Mama was keeping her December schedule. It was the Bonde (Farmer) calendar, she explained to us each year. At the beginning of the month the pig was butchered and hung from the high rafters in the barn, to age. Mama boiled the scrubbed pig’s head and the feet. She made head cheese, wrapped it in the skin and then in cheesecloth, then weighted it down in a brine in the stone crock. She used the same big rock to hold the sausage in place year after year. Tradition, I guess, or maybe she knew that stone was just the right size, and it was clean.

In the evenings my brother John and I sealed the envelopes on the Christmas cards. Mama selected each one carefully to fit the recipient. The most special ones were sent to Sweden, even as early as November. Always, every year we heard Mama admonish Papa, “Today, you are going to write to Ida and Gust back home.” She often ended up doing it herself.

The most exciting day of all was December 10 (Anna Day in Sweden), when the lutefisk was put into the wooden tub to soak. The Saturday before Anna Day Papa would go to Mount Vernon to the butcher shop and buy the dried cod, each piece measuring at least three feet. These he would saw into pieces about six to eight inches long. The cats relished the dust that fell from the sawing, dancing excitedly under the saw buck. Twice a day until Christmas Eve Mama would change the water on the fish. We watched as the fish was reconstituted, becoming white and fluffy.

During all of these preparations Mama and Papa explained to us that this is the way it was done in Sweden. The humble people made use of the poorest parts of the animal carcass. They added spices to enhance the flavor of ordinary food.

How we loved the pickled herring! And best of all was the Christmas baking, especially the pepparkakor, a ginger cookie. Mama made dozens of them and declared that during December we could eat some every day. This, she said, made children good and that was important before Christmas Eve.

Comment from the coach: Note Alice’s storytelling style—simple, yet satisfying. Her inclusion of homey details allow her readers a glimpse into a simpler time. She doesn’t dwell on emotional impact; she lets the facts speak for themselves. Compelling memoir need not be fancy, only from the heart.

Christmas 1932, memoir excerpt

My guest blogger this week is Alice Anderson, a lovely woman with a delightful gift for storytelling. Back when I led a bunch of writers in regular critique sessions, she was one of my favorites. Always, her stories were heartwarming and evocative. Thank you, Alice, for allowing me to share one of your stories here, in timeliness for the season.

Christmas 1932, Part 1

The first day of December in 1932 was wet and cold. That was quite typical in the Pacific Northwest. I lay snuggled deep into the homemade quilt listening to Mama and Paper conversing in the kitchen.

I liked the little bedroom off the kitchen. Early in the morning I would hear Papa rustling the newspaper, gathering the bunch of kindling, turning the grates on the Monarch stove. Then I would hear the match struck to light the fire. Soon the teakettle would make the sound of “S,” and the aroma of fresh brewed coffee would drift into my bedroom.

Mama would then come down the stairs and stir among the kettles. Oatmeal, she was cooking oatmeal. I could do without that. Today as on other mornings I was listening to their conversation.

Mama broached the subject. “We’ll be alone this Christmas, I suppose. The car broken down and what little money we have will have to go for the Federal Loan. It’s a long way for any relatives in Seattle to come. I guess we’ll just resign ourselves to Christmas alone.” Papa didn’t reply. He was reading.

Christmas all by ourselves! No one to play games with and all the good Christmas food for just the four of us! Not fair, not fair! I knew I’d have to pretend that I hadn’t heard what Mama had just said.

(to be continued)

Comment from the coach: Good stories present a problem to solve. Here, the problem is a family’s Christmas to be spent alone. Even before the problem is revealed, Alice takes care to reveal homey details to draw her readers into her tale.

The Larger World, memoir tip #1

Effective memoir is about more than your life and interior experience of emotion. It weaves in external elements—the larger world. Here, Mardi Gras is the "larger world" that enters into mine.

New Orleans, Part 2

And then there was the festival the city is most famous for: the one week in February when New Orleans is Mardi Gras. My introduction to this annual celebration began one day when a classmate at Aurora Gardens Academy brought a large, donut-shaped cake to school. Called a King Cake, it was sugar-frosted in the Mardi Gras colors of purple, green and gold. Hidden inside the pastry was a small, pink, plastic baby. Whoever got the slice of cake with the baby inside had to bring the next King Cake, and so on until Mardi Gras was over.

French for “Fat Tuesday,” Mardi Gras was the citywide carnival celebration that took place prior to the fasting season of Lent. For families like ours, Mardi Gras meant daily parades with ornate, gaudy floats from which people threw plastic beads, aluminum doubloons, and other trinkets. For many others, it meant a week of wild revelry in the heart of the French Quarter.

Though I was too young to understand why, Mom detested Mardi Gras and everything it stood for. Originally a celebration of the death of winter and the rebirth of nature, it grew out of pagan fertility rites (which probably explains the baby in the King Cakes). In the Middle Ages, the Catholic Church assimilated the festivals into their celebration before the Lenten season in an effort to control the wild excesses normally associated with the carnival. In modern times, Mardi Gras has lost most of its religious meaning. For most participants, it's simply an excuse to party.

Mom avoided the Mardi Gras scene as much as possible, but Dad would take us to watch the parades scheduled throughout the week. David and I loved to watch the long, long procession of floats, bands and marchers. We would join the rest of the crowd yelling “Throw me something, mister!” to encourage the people on the floats to toss their handfuls of beads and doubloons (representing the booty acquired by the Spanish Armada in days of old). When they threw the doubloons, the coins would cascade over the crowd in a rainbow of colors, and as they fell to the ground, we’d stomp on them to claim them. It was almost a contest to see how much loot we could accumulate, kind of like Halloween. David and I were quick and eager, and we always arrived home with plenty of bounty, which we would then hoard like misers.

David and I discovered the site near our house where two elaborate floats were stored off-season. These provided a wonderful playground for us with lots of interesting nooks and crannies to explore. We would climb aboard and scour them for trinkets left behind, which we then added to our Mardi Gras bounty.

Comment from the coach: Broaden story appeal by weaving in "larger world" elements. Answer questions such as:
- What major events were going on in the world?
- How did people in your circle or community respond?
- What were the economic realities? How did these affect your family?
- What music was popular? Books? Food? Clothes?
- What values did your community teach its children?

Memoir defined

Memoir or autobiography—what’s the difference? Strictly speaking, an autobiography provides an overview of an entire life told chronologically from birth to present. Memoir focuses on a slice of your life, and the events may or may not be in chronological order.

We use these terms loosely, though. In his recently published Autobiography, for instance, Mark Twain approaches his story by talking “only about the thing which interests you for the moment"—and is therefore more free-ranging than you would expect from a strict autobiography. “Autobiography” in this case most likely refers to the completeness of the work.

On the other hand—most common, everyday memoir writers (that’s you and me, the non-celebrities) say we’re writing memoir, but most of us are probably writing autobiography. Why? Because autobiography is simpler for the unpracticed writer. The structure is already in place: you start with birth, you end with where you are now.

Memoir might require a more skill—more time, more editing—to achieve the desired effect. It might also be more literary as thematic elements are explored and structure may not be a straight, A to Z shot.

Either way is a perfectly legitimate way to tell your story. The main thing is to get it told.

Someplace I lived as a child, memoir prompt #2

Today we’ll take a look at how place can become a meaningful part of your memoir. Here’s my take on New Orleans, where I lived in the early 1980’s.

New Orleans, Part 1

There’s no city in the world like New Orleans. A blend of Spanish, French and Cajun cultures, Old World charm and southern tranquility, it exudes an aura all its own. The birthplace of jazz, it also has a lively – and seedy – side to its character. I wasn’t exposed to this aspect of the city, however. Mom and Dad saw to that.

Despite the damp, sticky heat, I always enjoyed our family’s forays into the French Quarter at the heart of the city. To my young eyes, everything was exotic: the cramped shops selling everything from sugary pralines to voodoo trinkets and incense, the monuments to southern war heroes, the trolley cars ringing past, the wrought-iron fences surrounding lush, garden patios, even the Muddy Mississippi, which was as brown as its nickname implies. I read Mark Twain’s The Adventures of Huckleberry Finn and The Adventures of Tom Sawyer while we were living in New Orleans, and I was fascinated by these legendary characters and the river that played such a role in their adventures.

There was always plenty to see, taste and smell in New Orleans. I remember touring the Mississippi on a paddleboat, sampling the spicy Cajun food and visiting the wax museum filled with characters from the city’s history. One of my favorite pleasures, however, was a simple one. When I got tired of walking the cobblestone alleys, I liked to purchase a bag of crumbs from a street vendor, sit beside a cool fountain and feed the pigeons that gathered there.

Comment from the coach: When describing a place where you lived as a child, be sure to include a bit of history, which provides broader scope. Also include sensory details, such as the mention here of “the damp, sticky heat.” Highlight specific details and experiences that are unique to you.

How I Got My Name, memoir prompt #1

My guest blogger today is my second-grade daughter, Madeline, who originally wrote today’s post as a homework assignment. Special thanks to her teacher, Mrs. Vogel, for providing the inspiration.

My name is Madeline Elise Jones. My parents had a hard time deciding on a girl’s name if their baby was a girl. After a lot of discussion, they chose Madeline because it was a classic name, and elegant, and it had a cute nickname (Maddie) if I wanted one. They chose Elise because they thought it was beautiful and liked the way it sounded between Madeline and Jones. Jones is my dad’s family name. It’s Welsh.

Comment from the coach: Telling the story of your name is a terrific piece to include in your memoir. Your name tells a lot about you and your family, and no two stories are exactly alike.

White Picket Fences, book review

No family is perfect, no matter how it appears, and a picket fence can conceal more about what goes on inside a home than it reveals. This premise forms the basis for Susan Meissner’s latest novel, White Picket Fences, in which we meet Neil and Amanda Janvier, a couple who seems to have it all—a beautiful home, fulfilling jobs, two great kids. Not until Amanda’s niece Tally comes to stay does the weave begin to unravel, when she and Chase, the Janvier's seventeen-year-old son, partner together on a school sociology project. As they interview two Holocaust survivors at an assisted living facility, the men’s recollections fuel Chase’s growing interest--and increasingly disturbing memories--of a long-ago house fire. Chase's quest to understand the truth of the tragedy threatens the very fabric of his family, who must answer for themselves a question: is it better to let the unpleasantness of the past stay in the past--or face it head-on and deal with the consequences?

This novel showcases Meissner’s smooth prose, which is, as usual, flawless. But beyond that, I found the characters lacking depth, their dialogue banal, and their problems over-hyped. I felt, in fact, as if I were watching a Hallmark Hall of Fame movie: a pleasant story, but without deep roots to resonate with my soul. Even the inclusion of the Holocaust-survivor subplot seemed an attempt to beef up a thin tale.

I admire Susan Meissner’s clear style and her inspirational stories that appeal to both mainstream and Christian readers. When I picked up White Picket Fences, I'd hoped it would measure up to A Seahorse in the Thames, my favorite of her novels—but in this I was disappointed. Even so, I'll still look forward to her next offering. Meissner's proven track record is enough--for now--to keep me coming back for more.

Novel Rocket: Launch Pad's First Winner

Novel Rocket: Launch Pad's First Winner
Still to a Whisper, my latest completed manuscript, won this contest for Women's Fiction, 2011. (Thanks, Novel Rocket. You guys rock!)

Maybe someday I'll be posting a trailer for Still to a Whisper like the one below for Ted Dekker and Tosca Lee's latest, Forbidden. Fun to dream, anyway...

Forbidden, book trailer

My Foolish Heart, book review

Normally, I don’t do romance novels. While I believe that any story is made better with a dash of romance, mainlining the stuff’s not my bag. Which means I had some ambivalence when I picked up My Foolish Heart by award-winning author Susan May Warren. But since a writerly friend of mine recommended it, I figured it was worth a look.

In this, the fourth of Warren’s Deep Haven novels (“romance and adventure on Minnesota’s North Shore…”), we meet Isadora Presley, a young woman whose life fell apart when a horrific car accident took her mother’s life, sent her football coach father into the local care center as a quadriplegic, and left Issy the victim of PTSD. Three years later, no one in Deep Haven (except for Lucy, Issy’s loyal BFF) knows that agoraphobic Issy leads a secret life as the hostess of the nationally syndicated talk show, My Foolish Heart. She coaches listeners to hold out for their perfect “ten,” reminding them that their perfect match might be right next door. Except in her case, which she especially knows to be true when a new neighbor moves in—a man whose goal appears to take over her father’s position as the high school football coach. Instead, she falls for a caller to her show, whose humor, warmth and vulnerability completely win her heart—and leave her more certain than ever that true love could never come knocking on her own front door.

Warren is one of the most respected writing coaches in Christian fiction. (You can check out her website, My Book Therapy, linked to this blog.) And in this romance, I was pleased to see that she follows her own good advice, achieving the perfect balance of deft description, sparkling dialogue, and tension on every page. She never holds back a reveal, and as a result her plot ticks right along. While I can’t say that My Foolish Heart made me want to read more romance novels, I can say that Warren’s mastery claimed my respect and admiration. But for those who do love the genre, listen up: this novel’s for you.

A Month of Summer, book review

For my taste, Lisa Wingate novels are hit and miss. While I admire this Christian novelist for her ability to cross over into the mainstream market, I find some of her novels anemic--the characters familiar, the plot predictable, the premise bland. Tending Roses, her 2001 debut with New American Library, comes to mind.

But this one’s different.

In A Month of Summer, we find Rebecca Macklin, a successful California attorney, reluctantly flying to Dallas, to the home of her father and her stepmother from whom she has long been estranged. Her father now suffers from Alzheimer’s, and her stepmother, Hanna Beth, has suffered a debilitating stroke, landing her in a nursing home and rendering her incapable of caring for her husband and her mentally-challenged son. That responsibility, at least temporarily, falls to Rebecca, who has left a score of her own problems at home. Hanna Beth, for her part, is just as unwilling to receive Rebecca’s help, but circumstances compel them to rely on each other. And as they do, the ghosts of old betrayals emerge, and the two women forge a new relationship, this one based on forgiveness and truth.

In A Month of Summer, I savored Wingate’s literary prose, which was often lyrical but not overblown. I appreciated her elegant but thorough narration, using just two point-of-view characters, Rebecca and Hanna Beth. In Rebecca, especially, I found a protagonist I could relate to. Even if her problems weren’t exactly mine, her fears and worries, and (I hope) her strength of character were ones I could identify with. I also liked Wingate’s premise and her plotting, which included a compelling beginning and enough surprises at the end to make for a very satisfying read.

All of which left me wishing for more novels of this caliber from Lisa Wingate.

Talking to the Dead, book review

In her debut novel, Talking to the Dead, Bonnie Grove introduces Kate Davis, a twentysomething wife suddenly confronted with widowhood. Which is a situation terrible enough, but when Kate’s dead husband starts talking to her, she realizes that in addition to being mired in grief, she’s also crazy. In search of healing, she turns to one therapist after another, but none offer the cure she seeks. It’s the people she encounters along the way—free-spirited Maggie and kind-hearted Jack—whose gentle love eventually show her the way back to health and wholeness.

From its opening lines, I was drawn into Talking to the Dead. Narrator Kate Davis possesses the most appealing first-person voice in Christian fiction I’ve read since Dr. Dylan Foster in Melanie Wells’ The Day of Evil Comes series (also reviewed on this blog). With a writer’s admiration tinged with envy, I found myself reading, and then rereading lines like, Uncertainty crept up my spine and knocked on my skull. Other passages I read thinking, Did she really dare to say that…in CBA? You go, girl. (And you go, publisher David C. Cook, for daring to put it in print.)

Each page holds tension and layered subtexts, and Kate makes a memorable protagonist. Why? Well, in addition to a fresh narrator’s voice, Kate possesses qualities larger-than-life: She throws lasagna at her sister. She crashes her red Mazda into the car of her newfound friend. She punches her nemesis in the face and lands herself in the local psych ward. Unbelievable? You might think so, but not under Groves’ skillful hand.

And then there’s Kate’s inner conflict: Her husband’s dead, and he talks to her—which she likes because it soothes her grieving heart, but… her husband’s dead and he talks to her—which she doesn’t like because proves she’s crazy (right?). She wants her husband to keep talking and yet she wants him to stop. Two mutually exclusive goals—she can’t have them both. That’s inner conflict, and a memorable one.

There’s a lot to like here, and I did, thoroughly and without reservation…until the last quarter of the novel. Then, oddly, characters and plot began to feel familiar, predicable…cliché. The ending seemed rushed, lacking the wonderful textures of the first three hundred pages. The conclusion fell flat. However, despite the disappointing ending, Talking to the Dead remains a compelling read, and I look forward to more works of women’s fiction by this intriguing author.

The 11 Secrets to Getting Published, book review

Raise your hand if you’re a writer and want to be a published one. Keep your hand up if that goal seems more unattainable than at first you’d imagined. Hard, isn’t it? Those who have reached this particular pinnacle cite it as among the hardest work they’ve ever done. Many have attempted to reach the summit, found the climb too steep, too long, or both, and fallen by the wayside. Afraid that might also happen to you?

One who has made the ascent and lived to tell about it is the gifted writer, Mary DeMuth, author of numerous novels, non-fiction books, and a recently published memoir, Thin Places. I’ve not read much of her non-fiction, but I have read her fiction, and I can tell you her themes run deep and touch core emotion, wringing it out almost past endurance before delivering (always) redemption and hope. As for her memoir, well—I dare you to find another more gut-wrenching in its honesty.

What was Mary’s secret to publishing success? No secret, actually. In fact, she wants you to know and tells all in her latest e-book, The 11 Secrets to Getting Published. I found it to be a straightforward read, easily digested in bite-sized morsels. It’s thorough and chummy, and I especially appreciated her wisdom regarding 10,000 hours and the myth of multi-tasking. But what made the read totally worthwhile? The samples of a salable synopsis plus three query letters (all of which landed contracts). Bonus!

Interested in knowing more? Mary’s offering a free copy to the winner of a drawing on this blog. To enter, simply leave a comment before August 11, or answer my poll. Either way, your name will be entered in a drawing for Mary’s book.

By the way, whatever’s blocking your ascent, Mary has ideas to help you overcome. So even if you don’t win here, you may want to consider buying her book on Amazon. If publication is your goal, it could be among the best three bucks you’ve ever spent.

The Help, book review

Unless you’ve been living under a rock, you’ve heard about The Help by Kathryn Stockett. Maybe you’ve read it. Me, I’m on the tail end of the wave. When The Help first hit the scene, I checked it out from the local libe, read just enough to know it was a keeper, and turned it back in to await its arrival in paperback. Then I bought it and tucked it on my shelf to save for a start-of-summer treat.

Talk about worth the wait.

Set in Jackson, Mississippi in the early ‘60s, The Help follows the lives of three Southern women: Aibaleen, dignified and devoted, a nanny/cook/housekeeper who possesses a secret ability to write; Minny, feisty and opinionated, a cook bar-none who stoically endures her husband’s abuse; and Miss Skeeter, privileged yet awkward, the daughter of a genteel cotton farmer who longs for change. When Skeeter’s best friend conspires to build Aibaleen her own segregated toilet—part of her “Home Help Sanitation Initiative”—it’s the catalyst that propels Skeeter out of her ambivalence into action. What begins as a naïve hope eventually births a daring mission—to write a book written from the colored point of view, revealing the truth of what is means for black to serve white. The project catches the eye of a hard-boiled New York publisher. And the stories Skeeter unearths, in all their contradiction and complexity, usher in change—in ways no one could have imagined.

The Help is one of those books as compelling for its literary excellence as for its content. From a writerly perspective, it’s hard to fault this well-crafted novel. Its description is richly drawn, and each narrative voice distinctive, compelling, pitch-perfect. Plus, Stockett’s impeccable research results in a character-driven novel that’s as page-turning as a thriller.

But the real beauty of The Help is what it’s about: not race, ultimately, but humankind. The best line—which sums up the whole story—is when Skeeter sees that the book she’s writing is not merely about a colored person and a white person relating to each other. We are just two people, she realizes. Not that much separates us. Not nearly as much as I’d thought.

If you haven’t already done so, move The Help to the top of your list. Read it. Savor it. Allow yourself to be shocked… ashamed… moved. Consider afresh American race relations, with all its ongoing setbacks and successes. Though as a people we still have far to go, you’ll appreciate what’s been achieved and those whose sacrifice helped to achieve it. You’ll never take such gains for granted again.

Novel Journey: Dry as Rain Book Trailer

Novel Journey: Dry as Rain Book Trailer

Havah, book review

Imagine you are created--not born--to dwell in a perfect world in absolute harmony. Imagine that one fateful day, you make a choice that not only thrusts you into exile from paradise, but condemns all of creation to pay for your mistake. Imagine that you must then make your way in this hostile world without precedent to guide you….

Imagine.

That’s exactly what Tosca Lee does in her novel, Havah: The Story of Eve. With lush prose, she paints a sensual paradise before leading her readers through the crushing moments surrounding the fall, then into the abyss of unspeakable loss and guilt that follows. In fictionalizing the story of Havah (Eve), Lee courageously treads where many a Christian writer would fear to venture, wielding her imagination both creatively and responsibly.

I struggled, nonetheless, to relate to this Eve, whose relationship with her adam (man) after the fall is fraught with tension to the point of enmity. Even more disturbing is their dearth of communion with the One that Is. Though we’re given tantalizing, fleeting glimpses of Him in Eden, He all but disappears (though He is longed for) after the banishment and humanity’s relentless slide toward death.

Of course, that’s probably the point. But still--it made for bleak reading, especially after Kayin (Cain) kills Hevel (Abel), and what remains of the plot’s propelling tension unravels.

Though Lee is faithful to hint at humanity’s hope for rescue--of redemption from its fallen state--Havah ultimately lacks the wow factor I was hoping for.

My Soul to Keep, book review

I waited years to hear more from Melanie Wells and was thrilled to finally spot her latest on Amazon. In My Soul to Keep, the third of the Day of Evil series, psychology professor Dylan Foster’s young friend, Christine Zocci, celebrates her sixth birthday at a park where a little boy, Nicholas, is snatched by a stranger. As the police commence their search, every clue fizzles to failure, while Christine’s eerie connection to the boy leads Dylan on an investigation of her own. Dodging the mysterious Peter Terry’s attempts to thwart her, Dylan remains dogged to the end in her quest for the truth.

Who would not want to spend time with this charmingly flawed, outspoken heroine (entirely too prim a term for the intrepid Dr. Dylan Foster)? A thoroughly beguiling Christian, neck-deep in boyfriend woes, who freely admits that, “if Christianity were a merit-based society, I would have gotten kicked out years ago. ... I never go to Bible study, don’t keep a prayer journal or do the morning ‘quiet time’ thing. I only remember to pray in emergency situations. The truth is, I really don’t have time or energy for all that checklisty stuff.”

Makes me wish I could join her in one of those "let's get real" conversations, preferably over one of her famous glasses of pinot grigio.

This novel has it all: taut pacing, spicy voice, a dash of romance--a superbly crafted suspense. If pressed to provide a criticism, I would offer up only this: the cover, in its sepia tones, conveys a grimness not reflected in the story. Don’t let the macabre artwork scare you away. If ever a book should not be judged by its cover, it's this one.

May the next wait not be so long for a Melanie Wells novel, whether it’s another installment in this series, or something entirely new. In either case, if it’s anything like My Soul to Keep, it’ll be well worth the wait.

The Muir House, trailer

Genoa Bay, book review

I like “fresh start” stories and so when Genoa Bay, the latest by one of my most admired Christian novelists, hit the shelves, I was among the first in line. I appreciate Bette Nordberg’s fresh prose and have been especially drawn to her sensitive-yet-authentic portrayal of real-life issues such as domestic violence (Serenity Bay), marital infidelity (Pacific Hope), AIDS and homosexuality (A Season of Grace). With that in mind, I dove into the first pages of this beautifully-bound novel with much anticipation.


And I was off to a good start, with an enigmatic opening line: God talks to me. Thus, I was introduced to Brandy Beauchamp, a Navy widow with a young daughter, who leaves her comfortable life in Pensacola to tackle the renovation of a decrepit bed-and-breakfast in Genoa Bay, British Columbia. There, she catches the eye of another ex-patriot, Cliff, a divorced dad with twin boys, whose attention she returns with ambivalence. Her decision to open the B&B garners a different kind of attention, however, from the owner of the nearby marina, who wants to buy her land in order to develop a posh waterfront community. Overcoming increasing odds, Brandy must decide whether her dream is worth the price as she also learns to trust the Voice of God that guides her.

Throughout, Nordberg paints a pretty picture, deftly imbuing Genoa Bay, the novel, with a vivid sense of Genoa Bay, the place. But there are other elements that rub the sheen off the charm of this story. The strict linear narrative (even considering the occasional flashbacks) becomes predictable. Dialogue sometimes sags, as when it's used to tell the readers something the characters would already know. (The phone call between Brandy and her boss, for example.) And as a lover of romance, I find the chemistry between the heroine and her love-interest lacking. Many of Brandy’s reactions to Cliff seem overblown and unsupported by the narrative--such as when she calls him an unusual man (in a mostly flattering way). I just don't see it.

Smaller issues should have caught an editor’s eye: the occasional (and confusing) inconsistency in verb tense; the naming two different boys “James;” the mention of Brandy’s daughter on the back cover as five years old, while on the first page, she’s seven.

In Writing the Breakout Novel, literary agent Donald Maass exhorts writers to create tension on every page--tension, as defined as those unexpected turns of plot and character that keep hungry readers turning pages. Genoa Bay lacked that kind of tension. It was a nice, gentle story, but little more.

Unfinished Business

My posts have been a little lean lately, in part because I’ve started and stopped several of the books I was reading. Why did I stop? Good question. I’d started each of them because—obviously—they appealed to me in some way. I saw something in the cover art or read something in the synopsis that invited me inside. Once there, however, I found the place less appealing.

Sometimes—if it’s secular fiction—it’s the language that gets me, or the moral content. I can stand only so much sleaziness before crying “uncle.”
If it’s Christian fiction, the problem might lie in the opposite direction. Too much sweetness and light, not enough reality. Or a story that’s too message-driven.

Whatever the reason, quitting is always disappointing.

How about you? Respond with a comment and I’ll enter your name in a drawing for a $5 Starbucks gift card. Take my poll while you’re at it! Deadline is 8 p.m., Friday, May 6, 2011.

Someone to Blame, book review

Always on the lookout for outstanding Christian novels, I was intrigued when I found Someone to Blame, a work of contemporary fiction by fantasy novelist C.S. Lakin. Its title and back cover synopsis were enough to draw me in...

Following the crushing losses of both their teenage sons, Matt and Irene Moore move with their daughter, 14-year-old Casey, to a small coastal Northwest town. In doing so, they hope to leave behind plaguing, guilt-ridden memories. Instead, trouble seems to follow them – trouble, most specifically, in the form of a young man named Billy Thurber, a drifter with a questionable past. His behavior provokes suspicion and anger from all those he meets – with one notable exception. Casey, hurting and impressionable, falls instantly under his spell. But her infatuation is no protection against the town’s rising resentment, tilting toward murderous intent.

From first page to last, Someone to Blame shines. It contains neither sugar-coating nor preaching – only real-life drama lived out by ordinary characters made extraordinary by circumstance. Lakin introduces high conflict in the opening chapters and sustains page-turning tension without ever becoming melodramatic. Her complex interweaving of plotlines builds toward a satisfying conclusion, and though she has more POV characters than I’ve seen in a long time, each is credible, not cardboard. Best of all, the spiritual takeaway doesn’t knock you over the head; instead, it blooms naturally from the story.

I liked this story so much, in fact, that after reading a borrowed copy from the library, I ordered my own from Amazon – which is where I learned that for this stand-alone, Lakin won the Zondervan First Novel contest at the Mount Hermon Christian Writers Conference. It’s a well-deserved distinction. I found Someone to Blame one of the most compelling works of Christian fiction in recent memory – worthy of belonging in anyone’s personal library.

The Ladies Auxiliary, book review

The Ladies Auxiliary by Tova Mirvis is not new on the scene (published in 1999), but I picked it up because I wanted to know more about the novel’s backdrop – the Jewish Orthodox community in Memphis, Tennessee. I’d never heard of such a thing. (Had you?)

When Batsheva, a free-spirited Jewish convert, moves to Memphis’ insular Orthodox neighborhood, she makes the women of the Ladies Auxiliary question things they’d never thought to question before. As Batsheva’s popularity waxes and wanes, everything about her life is examined by the Auxiliary – her friendship with Yosef, the Rabbi’s handsome, learned son; her teaching methods at the school; and – most alarmingly – her increasingly influential relationship with the community’s impressionable teenage daughters.

In The Ladies Auxiliary, Mirvis employs a literary technique I’d never encountered in modern literature: the use of first person plural (“we”) as her narrator – a collective voice, like a Greek chorus. It took me a while to get used to this, but I thought it worked – mostly. The most significant downside was my inability to “see” who was speaking. The device might also have more effective had Mirvis not dipped occasionally into a weirdly jarring third-person POV.

That said, I found Mirvis’ insider’s take on this exclusive society fascinating, and her characters well-drawn. Though the plot faltered toward the end, and the conclusion lacked satisfying closure, it was an eye-opening glimpaw into the modern American Jewish Orthodox community.

A Girl Named Zippy, book review

My neighbor, who’s as indefatigable a reader as I am, handed me this book by Haven Kimmel and said, “I think you might like this one.”


In A Girl Named Zippy: Growing up Small in Mooreland, Indiana, the author shares stories of her 1970s childhood, from birth until about age ten. Kimmel was born as an afterthought into a family that included an aloof, much-older brother; a beguiling sister, as beautiful as Kimmel was funny-looking; a mom who, when not mired in depression, loved books, her family and God; and an atheist, cigarette-wielding, gun-toting-but-devoted father.


Talk about fodder for Midwestern drama.


In this mostly sweet, often quirky memoir (once a Today’s Book Club pick), Kimmel achieves an artful retelling of a contented childhood. How she manages to turn that into a page-turner still eludes me. Tension surely exists – between Zippy and her family, between Zippy and her fellow townsfolk (especially the grownups who don’t know what to make of this odd little girl with the too-big teeth and the barely-there hair). How Kimmel weaves these conflicts together to propel her characters forward is a testament to her skill as a storyteller.


In getting her memoir published, Kimmel defied the odds. She’s not famous; neither is Mooreland, population 300, which in this book stands as a character on its own. Plus, Kimmel writes of a happy childhood. How does this form the basis for a bestseller? Perhaps the secret lies in Kimmel’s prose, which, though unadorned, rings clear and true. I challenge any reader to not find something to enjoy about A Girl Named Zippy.

Beside Still Waters: Author Interview

Still Missing, book review

In her book Still Missing, newcomer author Chevy Stevens uses a technique I've seen few novelists pull off - second-person point of view. She writes to you. The you is not you, the reader, however; it's the psychologist to whom the protagonist tells her tale. Does it work? I'll get to that.

Annie O’Sullivan is waiting…alone…at an Open House, hoping to make a sale when a white van pulls into the driveway. She thinks her luck is about to change when instead, it’s her life that changes – hideously, forever. Abducted and imprisoned for a year at a remote mountain cabin, she endures unthinkable acts at the hands of a man she calls The Freak. Not until after her escape, however, does she grasp the whole horror of what she’s been through – for though she’s managed to break free from The Freak, she cannot so easily untangle herself from her own memories. The story that unfolds, as Annie shares her living nightmare with her shrink, is of her struggle to piece her life together as the investigation continues its attempt to identify her captor.

Still Missing is one of those rare debut novels that knocks you off your feet. What drives the story – what makes it both chilling and universally fascinating – is Annie’s quest to find hope, healing and wholeness following a devastating trauma. A lesser protagonist would crumble, but Annie O’Sullivan manages…somehow… to hang on. Stevens uses shocking language to tell Annie tale, but – and I don’t say this lightly – it’s not gratuitous. Stevens’ trick of using Annie’s shrink sessions to tell much of the story is also masterfully done - so yes, the risky POV works. My only complaint (spoiler alert) is when Annie has sex with the lead investigator on her case. The act is supposed to show progress in Annie’s character development, proof that she can be intimate with a man again. But no – this is too cheap and easy. It also completely (and unsatisfactorily) deflates the element of romantic suspense that Stevens, until this point, nurtures exquisitely.

Nonetheless, if you have the stomach for it, Still Missing is an edgy, spell-binding tale you won't want to put down.

Ice Cold, book review

When I’m looking for a thrill ride of a book, Tess Gerritsen seldom fails to deliver, and so I was pleased to check out Ice Cold, her latest. It’s the eighth of her novels featuring the tried-and-true duo of homicide detective Jane Rizzoli and medical examiner Maura Isles.

While at a medical conference in Wyoming, Maura is surprised to encounter a college acquaintance, who persuades her to join him, his daughter, and another couple on a spontaneous ski trip. An accident soon derails their adventure, however, and they seek refuge in the village of Kingdom Come, a cult’s home that’s been mysteriously abandoned. Jane, meanwhile, becomes concerned when she’s unable to reach Maura, and when local police find five charred bodies at the scene of a vehicle accident and identify one of them as Maura’s, Jane travels to Wyoming to investigate.

Though there were a few plot holes that I would have liked filled, Ice Cold offers satisfying depth in both story and characters, neither of which ever feels cardboard or contrived. In this way, Gerritsen remains true to form. Even so, the suspenseful thrills here weren’t as gratifying as those which I’ve experienced in many of her other works. This novel felt too commercialized, actually. I had the same reaction when Mary Higgins Clark relaxed into her role as Queen of Suspense. In Gerritsen’s case, perhaps the fact that TNT recently launched a TV series based on Maura and Jane had something to do with it. Perhaps the speed with which she must now produce her work makes the quality suffer. Which is not to say that Ice Cold was poorly written. It wasn’t. But if you’re looking for the full-on, goose-bump-raising effect of Tess Gerritsen at her finest, I’d suggest you start with one of her earlier works.

Her Fearful Symmetry, book review

Audrey Niffenegger tackled a fantastical premise in The Time Traveler’s Wife, and she exceeded herself with Her Fearful Symmetry, which is, at heart, a ghost story.

Her story begins with the death of Elspeth Noblin, who bequeaths her London flat overlooking London’s Highgate Cemetery to her 20-year-old twin nieces, the daughters of her estranged twin. The twins move from America to claim their new home, embracing the adventure. In London, their lives intersect with others who dwell in their building – Elspeth’s lover, Robert; Martin, an OCD crossword-puzzler; and eventually Elspeth herself…

There are many disconcerting aspects of this novel, not the least of which is the fully drawn point-of-view character of a ghost. The omniscient narrative – an unusual choice for a 21st-century writer – also took some getting used to. As for suspended disbelief (spoiler alert!)... I was okay with the ghost, but I had more trouble believing that one twin would take her own life (albeit intending to be resurrected back into her body) in order to get away from her domineering twin.

I do wish Niffenegger had connected a few more dots as she wrapped things up. I like an author who trusts her readers’ intelligence, but a few of her concluding twists left me scratching my head. That said, Her Fearful Symmetry is a thoroughly intriguing book (if a more than a little weird) and the finale, while not hoped for, is nonetheless satisfying.

Look Again, book review

Look Again, a stand-alone novel by Lisa Scottoline (rhymes with fettuccine), is a departure for this prolific New York Times bestseller. She's built a formidable career penning legal dramas, notably the Rosato & Associates series.

But in Look Again, the protagonist is not an attorney but an ordinary working mom, Ellen Gleeson, who balances her dual roles as a feature reporter and single-mother. Two years before, Ellen embraced single parenthood willingly when, in the course of doing a feature story about NICU nurses, she fell in love with a sick baby boy abandoned by his parents. After adopting him and naming him Will, she brought him home, where life continued happily – until a Have-you-seen-this-child postcard catches Ellen eye. The featured child looks exactly like Will, and though she tries to banish questions about her son’s identity, her reporter’s curiosity won’t let her. Not even when the answers risk everything she holds dear.

From this novel’s first line, I knew I was onto something good. Its opening pages hooked me, its concluding ones satisfied, and everything in between captured my complete attention: the taut pacing, superlative writing, page-turning twists, and complex, real-life issues. In this novel, Scottoline proves her reputation as a best-seller by writing a novel that rises above the usual mainstream fare. What can I say? I really liked this book. Look Again is a story to be savored.

Quality of Care, book review

I bought this book by Elizabeth Letts after reading another of her novels (Family Planning) and loving it. Quality of Care is Letts’ debut onto the publishing scene.

Though obstetrician Clara Raymond loves her work, her world is tipped upside-down the night a pregnant woman is admitted onto her delivery floor. To her astonishment, Clara discovers she’s Lydia, the estranged childhood friend who once saved her life in a shattering horseback-riding accident. With Lydia is her husband, Gordon – the man Clara once loved. Though Lydia’s complaints seem at first to be minor, the situation takes a catastrophic turn, leaving Clara to question her role in the outcome. The consequences of that night cause Clara to embark on a quest into her own past, which brings her at last to an unexpected peace.

Given the excellent writing in Letts’ other novel, I had high expectations for this one. But though her personal experience lends Letts a depth and breadth of knowledge to write from (she is both a practicing nurse-midwife and former competitive equestrian), I found that Quality of Care tried to be too many things at once. A medical suspense, a romance, an inspirational (that is, New Age)? Letts dabbled in all three genres, and while they can all belong together – and often do – I had the sense that this book lacked a grounding identity. Perhaps the problem stemmed from my inability to resonate with the protagonist. Many of Clara’s choices seem unlikely at best, and she fails to possess a credible gravitas I would expect of one in her profession.

In short, I was disappointed with Quality of Care, and though I still consider Family Planning a fine read, I will think twice before spending money on another of Letts’ novels.

Blue Heart Blessed, book review

The pleasure of reading one of Susan Meissner’s books is like eating bread and butter – a simple joy, but basic and satisfying.

Blue Heart Blessed introduces us to Daisy Murien who, after being jilted at the altar, opens a wedding boutique that specializes in secondhand wedding dresses – starting with her own. And yet, though the sight of it brings her heartache, she can’t quite let go of her own gown - not even when she has the perfect buyer for it. While trying to make sense of this, a dear friend – the Episcopal priest who blesses the blue satin hearts Daisy weaves into the lining of each dress – becomes ill. When his recently divorced son tries to take him away, Daisy’s wounded heart at last throbs back to life. And finally she understands that the reason she cannot let go of her own wedding dress is because she hasn’t quite given up on love.

Meissner’s prose is (as usual) clean and clear. I found her protagonist agreeable company, easy-to-relate-to despite – or perhaps because of – her flaws. I liked Meissner’s device of using her protagonist’s advice-wielding alter-ego, Harriet, to reveal the inner workings of her heart. I liked the symbolism of the blue heart that Daisy sews into each second-hand wedding dress. And finally, I liked the reason Daisy is finally able to sell her own gown.

In Blue Heart Blessed, Meissner offers a romance delivered in her trademark style: without frills, but a sweet story, well-told.

Chosen, book review

In Chosen, her debut novel, author Chandra Hoffman unveils an idealistic adoption caseworker who becomes entangled in the lives of adoptive and birth parents, with shattering results. It all begins with Chloe Pinter, who believes she’s living the dream in Portland, Oregon as she matches birth parents with adoptive parents. She feels the “honor of being a part of such an important moment” – in the creation of a family. The satisfaction she gets from her work shields her from the stresses of her personal life, including her moody, beautiful boyfriend. But her job satisfaction begins to crumble as the messiness of her clients’ lives intrudes. First, there are the Novas, the attractive, still-in-love couple who endured years of infertility before conceiving their own child. There’s also Francie McAdoo, the desperate half of a wealthy couple for whom adoption is a last chance. Finally, there’s Jason and Penny, the down-on-their luck couple who have nothing – except the baby Francie wants more than anything. Then a baby goes missing, and dreams descend into nightmares, forcing everyone to reconsider what he or she really wants – and how to get it back.

Though I’d rate it R for language and sexual situations, Chosen was one of those books I read with awe and envy. How does a young novelist write with such depth and insight and imagination – and do it all superbly the first time out of the gate? This novel, in my opinion, has it all. Interesting, gritty, human characters – many of whom I would love to know personally – and others I would not. Storytelling masterfully balanced between character-driven and plot. And holding it all together, wordsmithing that ranks with the best of them.

In addition to these externals, the author herself provides another reason I liked this book so much. In her Author’s Notes, she remarks, “I wanted to tell a story in which there are no heroes or villains, just shades of gray, real people trying to recover from their stumbles with grace.”

That’s life. That’s real – and in this case, eminently readable.

South of Broad, book review

The last time I read a Pat Conroy novel was probably fifteen years ago. I’m not a particular fan, though I can see why he remains a perennial bestseller. To quote his flyleaf, Conroy possesses “a passion for life and language that knows no bounds.” To that, I’ll add that I like the way he makes setting a character all to itself, and as well as the way his characters surprise me with what they say and do. With that in mind, when South of Broad, one of his more recent tomes came to my attention, I decided to give it a try.


When Charleston born-and-bred Leo King’s older brother commits suicide at age ten, it plunges Leo into a pit of darkness that he begins to emerge from ten years later, at the start of his high school senior year. Not coincidentally, that’s also the year he becomes a part of a tightly knit group of friends ranging from a debutante, a black teenager with a chip on his shoulder the size of Fort Sumter, a brother-and-sister pair of orphans, and glamorous twins – one destined for the cinema, the other to die of AIDS. Over the next twenty years, their friendship is tested as they set out together on the quest of a lifetime, along the way unearthing secrets they never imagined existed.

This luscious novel begins well, introducing a plethora of intriguing characters, engrossing plot questions, and of course, the kind of compelling Southern setting Conroy’s famous for. But then – perhaps a third of the way through – flashback. A big one. This, I resisted because by then, I’d gotten to know the characters as grown-ups. I really wasn’t interested in devolving into their teenage angst, even if it did help to explain the adults they would become. It felt too much like telling, and I’d have preferred it shown.

By then, too, I was able to figure out the novel’s big secret, and it was too soon. I didn’t like knowing it so quickly or easily (really, I was hardly even trying). I wanted the suspense to sustain so that I might enjoy the surprise closer to the climax.

Which is all to say that I was disappointed in South of Broad, and suspect it may be another fifteen years before I try another of Pat Conroy’s books.

The Love Season, book review

Though it’s true you can’t judge a book by its cover, the cover was what made me pick up The Love Season by Elin Hilderbrand, an author who was new to me. Something about the beach scene depicting a weathered old rowboat and a solitary young woman silhouetted against a peach-hued sky made me want to see if the book would live up to its evocative artwork.

Set on idyllic Nantucket Island, The Love Season weaves together two stories – of Renata, who at nineteen is newly engaged and arrives with her fiancé on the island to announce their engagement to his wealthy parents; and of Marguerite, the godmother Renata does not know, a once-famous chef with a terrible secret. When Renata calls Marguerite and asks to meet, it sets in motion a day that goes not as planned for either of them – and changes the rest of their lives forever.

For a story that takes place in a single day and spends at least half its time exploring the past, this book has remarkable forward pull. Hilderbrand crafted her two protagonists masterfully, giving them enough quirks and foibles to fascinate, yet with enough strengths to make one believe they could overcome their own frailties to find happiness again. That said, there are a few particularly titillating plot elements that made my moral sensibilities clench, and the final chapters includes some strange jumps in point-of-view, which I found odd for a writer of this caliber. Until the end, Hilderbrand maintained a strict two-person POV. Then, without warning, she added brief snippets of others’. (In one scene, POV jumps between three characters within space of a single page, which after the focused clarity of the first two-hundred-some pages I found head-spinning. It also made me wonder a) what was Hilderbrand thinking, and b) why did her editors allow it?) All the same, it was a satisfying read, with one line toward the end making all the others worthwhile. Hilderbrand possesses a deft narrative touch, and I’ll be keeping an eye out for more from her.