Chasing Lilacs, book review

Here’s my confession: When I first picked up Carla Stewart’s Chasing Lilacs, I fully expected to put it down again a few pages later. I’d heard it was garnering favorable reviews, and because I try to stay current on the latest and greatest in Christian fiction, I thought I’d give it a whirl. Set in the ‘50s and told from the vantage point of a preteen girl, it’s not my usual fare, and I assumed it would be too tame for my tastes.

I was wrong.

It’s the summer of 1958, and life in small-town Texas should be simple and carefree. For twelve-year-old Sammie Tucker, however, it’s anything but. Her mother who has “nerve problems” is sent away to a place where she can receive shock treatments that are supposed to heal her. To Sammie – who blames herself for being unable to help her mother – this sounds frightening, and she questions her father for allowing it to happen. As she wades her way through a complicated swirl of emotions, she clings to a know-it-all friend, her bird-loving neighbor, and the intriguing new boy in town. She also befriends an elderly widower with a dark past and surprising connections to Sammie’s small world.

Though the uplifting tone of Stewart’s novel reflects her “passion for times gone by,” her themes and issues are timely ones – relevant and real. And although a few of her secondary characters lack the subtlety to make them truly believable, most are drawn with deft, clean lines. Emotions are rendered authentically, and the main characters reveal an unusual amount of depth for a coming-of-age novel. Stewart also manages to nail a great opening line and a satisfying concluding one.

Though I can’t say it’s one of my all-time faves, Chasing Lilacs blew my misguided preconceptions out of the water. All in all, I found it an impressive debut.

Body Surfing, book review

In her 2007 novel, Body Surfing, Anita Shreve returns to her trademark setting, the New Hampshire beach house featured in The Pilot’s Wife (Oprah Book Club pick, which I liked), The Weight of Water (Orange Prize finalist, which I did not), Fortune’s Rocks and Sea Glass.

At 29, Sydney (a woman with no last name) has been married twice – once divorced, now widowed. In an effort to regain her equilibrium, she accepts a position as tutor to the daughter of a wealthy couple. At their historic, sprawling beach house, Sydney meets the family’s two grown sons, who vie for her attention. When she becomes engaged to one, it threatens fragile family relationships and, in a disastrous explosion of events, exposes the true character of both the brother she chose and the one she did not.

Typical of Shreve’s novels, Body Surfing is a literary piece, a character study in which she offers keen insights into human nature. Her observations are sharp, often cutting. Atypical, however is the feel of this novel. Instead of a smooth narrative flow, Shreve employs bursts of almost random streams of consciousness. Though some might find this disjointed and (perhaps) jarring, I found it to be a testament to Shreve’s skill that it works, somehow flowing together to form a cohesive whole. When I attempt to figure out her genius, I conclude it’s as much in what Shreve does not say as what she does. She trusts her readers’ intelligence; she doesn’t feel the need to connect every dot, believing we can make the necessary connections ourselves.

That said, I didn’t care much for this novel. It was dark-ish, not one I wanted to savor. Some plot-turns veered into the unbelievable, and one subplot in particular seemed a gratuitous airing of Shreve’s morality. She did, however, leave room for hope at the end, which somewhat redeemed the novel as a whole.

Walking with Her Daughter, book review

I will read just about anything by Jessica Barksdale Inclan, for two reasons: one, because she writes beautifully; two, because the first time I read an Inclan novel, it mesmerized me. One Small Thing captured the heartache of infertility, a subject I know intimately, in a way I’ve never encountered before or since. It makes me hope that every novel she writes will likewise resonate within my soul.

Walking with Her Daughter was Inclan’s 2005 offering. In it, we find Jenna Thomas reeling with grief after the life of her 20-year-old daughter is tragically cut short by a terrorist’s bomb in Bali. As Jenna comes to terms with her shattering loss, she also struggles to make sense of her relationship with her ex-husband, as well as with her younger colleague with whom she has a budding romance. In the midst of this, Jenna makes a discovery that tips everything up on end, and forces her to confront what it means to embrace new life.

Though as flawlessly written as anything she’s done, I did not like this novel. I did admire Inclan’s unparalleled skill as a writer – subtly twisting the plot, drawing unique characters in infinite detail, getting beneath their skins and inside their heads. But about halfway through, I found myself skimming pages (not a good sign) in a hurry to reach the end, not because I was eager to reach the conclusion, but because I wanted to be done with Jenna. As a protagonist, I didn’t enjoy her. Not because her story began with horrific, unimaginable tragedy; so did the heroine of Blue Water by A. Manette Ansay, which I loved. No, the reason I didn’t want to spend time with Jenna was because her choices were repellent to me: habitually sleeping with her ex, drowning her grief in sex with her colleague, debating abortion until she’s assured by extensive prenatal testing that she carries a healthy child… I’m sorry, but yuck. Jenna's unpalatable moral character colored everything she did. And because of this, though the story ended on a hopeful note, it still left me with a bad taste in my mouth.

Crossing Oceans, book review

If you know anything about Christian fiction, you’ve heard about this debut novel, which has made quite a splash in the Christian publishing industry. When I picked it up, I was prepared to enjoy it because I like edgy fiction, and what’s edgier than death? That’s the topic at the heart of Gina Holmes’ Crossing Oceans.

Jenny Lucas swore she’d never return to the home she abandoned as a willful, pregnant young woman. But life – or, in this case, imminent death – has a way of toppling even the best-laid plans. Six years after she left, she and her young daughter return to her serene, North Carolina hometown, forcing Jenny to confront all that she hoped she’d left behind for good – including her grudge-toting father and her self-absorbed lover, the man who fathered her child. While Jenny struggles to mend what must be mended before it’s too late, she finds herself succumbing the impossible – falling in love. And amidst it all, she’s forced to overcome her own hurts and prejudices in order to do what’s best for the child she loves more than life itself.

I liked Holmes’ multi-faceted characters – how her Christian characters could be flawed, while non-Christian characters could serve as role models. I liked that, despite the heavy themes, Holmes didn’t get bogged down in religiosity – there was no overblown emotion or grandiose philosophizing. Just simple, straightforward storytelling, the way it should be. The characters and plot unfolded naturally, like flowers blooming beneath the sun. Holmes seasoned her prose with delights and surprises, such as, she was by my side faster than I could say, “I’ll be right back,” and Sometimes a picture was worth a thousand lies. I especially savored the artful opening lines and the masterful full-circle effect Holmes achieved with her final one.

But probably Holmes’ greatest achievement was her ability to imbue hope and joy into what could have been a sad story. At the risk of damning with faint praise, I’ll say that I liked this novel a lot. In fact, I recommend it.

Family Planning, book review

Which secrets of the past should we leave alone, and which must we face head-on?

(If this sounds familiar, it's because Susan Meissner asked the same question in White Picket Fences, which I reviewed last week. Just a coincidence, but interesting to see two very different novels with similar themes side-by-side...)

This question haunts the heroine of Elizabeth Letts’s 2006 novel, Family Planning, in which Charlotte Hopper, the nurse practitioner of a rural non-profit women’s health center, knows the importance of keeping secrets. Her clients, as well as her coworkers, depend on it. But when Charlotte’s charismatic college friend, moves in next door, she brings with her the whiff of an old secret so disturbing, Charlotte’s husband leaves rather than face it. On the heels of his abandonment, Charlotte makes a wrenching discovery at the health center, which not only puts her in the media spotlight, but brings her under suspicion of a terrible crime.

Family Planning was published by New American Library (NAL), a publishing house that emblazons a slogan across its covers: “Fiction for the way we live.” Appropriate. With stories geared for women, with plots and characters to engage the female imagination, NAL novels rarely fail to connect with my feminine soul. Many recent faves are, in fact, NAL books, including those by Karen White (Memory of Water), Lisa Wingate (A Month of Summer), Jessica Barksdale Inclan (One Small Thing). Marketed for mainstream audiences, not Christian ones, they often contain language I would not use, and characters with worldviews I do not embrace. Nonetheless, I savor the “realness” of these stories, which usually carry a concluding message of redemption and hope that I find myself pondering long after I finish the last page.

Such was certainly the case here. Letts proves herself a gifted storyteller – a worthy member of the NAL stable – with a knack for memorable characters and intriguing plot twists. I did stumble across a handful of odd typos and other inconsistencies that a proofing editor should have caught, but these were minor distractions. From the first gripping pages to the hope-filled conclusion, I was completely hooked.

I really, really liked this novel and look forward to more from Elizabeth Letts.

White Picket Fences, book review

No family is perfect, no matter how they appear, 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 as 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 hoped it would measure up to A Seahorse in the Thames, my favorite of her novels – but in this I was disappointed.

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, some of her novels I’ve found too 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.

Black and Blue, book review

If you’ve ever wondered why a woman would stay in an abusive marriage – and what would finally compel her to leave it – read Black and Blue by Anna Quindlen.

In this novel, an Oprah’s Book Club pick, Quindlen introduces Fran Benedetto, fleeing the familiarity of home, her work as a nurse, and regular beatings at the hands of her NYC cop husband, Bobby. Disappearing into the vastness of America, Fran takes with her their twelve year old son, Robert, and assumes a new identity as Beth Crenshaw in Florida. There, though freed from abuse, Beth faces new challenges – the making of friends; navigation of romance; ambivalence of her son; painful self-analysis; and daily fear of discovery and dread of what Bobby will do if he finds them.

Quindlen writes without embellishment, yet her straightforward account digs deep into Beth’s psyche. In Beth, we find a strong and sympathetic protagonist whose problems do not end when she leaves her abusive marriage. Quindlen includes a cast of well-rounded characters that allows a multi-faceted view of Beth’s situation: Cindy, the loyal new friend with a secret of her own; Grace, the fiercely protective younger sister left behind; Robert, the son bewildered by his feelings toward the father who loved him but who mistreated his mother; and Mike, the supremely kind man who waits patiently for Beth to return his love.

The pleasure of reading what otherwise might be a pretty grim novel springs from Quindlen’s clear prose, strong storylines, and her admirable restraint from moralizing. And though we’re not left with a purely happy ending, the author leaves that door cracked enough that we can hope happiness might someday walk in.

The Guernsey Literary and Potato Peel Pie Society, book review

The Guernsey Literary and Potato Peel Pie Society, an unusual novel with an unusual name, was also written by an unusual duo, an aunt-niece team comprised of Mary Ann Shaffer and Annie Barrows. The book was the brainchild of Shaffer, but when she became too ill to continue the project, she enlisted the help of her niece, Barrows, a writer of children’s stories. (Sadly, Shaffer died shortly after Guernsey’s publication.) Together, Shaffer and Barrows crafted a novel which continues to be embraced by book clubs around the world.

Set in England just after the end of World War II, the story opens as Juliet Ashton, a twenty-something British writer, receives a letter from a stranger, Dawsey Adams, a farmer living on Guernsey, one of the Channel Islands occupied by the Germans during the war. It sparks a correspondence that leads eventually to Juliet’s visit to the island to gather stories about the occupation for her latest literary project. There, she learns about the heroic Elizabeth, credited with establishing the Guernsey Literary and Potato Peel Pie Society. Though they never meet, Juliet finds herself drawn to Elizabeth’s strength of spirit and to the legacy that endures long after Elizabeth’s death.

The story unfolds by way of a series of letters written by a cast of quirky characters, allowing a wide range of voice as well as deep point of view. As each character delivers a new piece of the tale from his or her vantage point (and wrapped in his or her prejudices), we’re given intimate access to the characters’ motivations, foibles and idiosyncrasies…all that makes them unique and therefore interesting. While a novel of letters means a rather disjointed narrative and poses the challenge of sorting out who’s who and what’s what, especially at the start, it’s worth the effort. Elizabeth, though she remains off-stage for the duration, provides the glue that holds the story together, while a gently unfolding romance provides a hoped for and sweetly satisfying ending.

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, at redemption from its fallen state, Havah ultimately lacks the wow factor I was looking for.

Hotel on the Corner of Bitter and Sweet, book review

This book came to me via the roundabout recommendation of a woman who had been there – not to the Hotel on the Corner of Bitter and Sweet, as Jamie Ford’s latest novel is titled, but to a Japanese internment camp, which encompasses a large part of this story.

Written by a man of Chinese descent with a thoroughly American name, it tells the story of another Chinese man, Henry Lee, whose backward glance into his past begins in 1986. That’s when a stash of possessions left by Japanese families as they were sent to internment camps is discovered in the basement of Seattle’s Panama Hotel. One of these belongings, a parasol, triggers Henry’s memories of Keiko Okabe, a Japanese girl he befriended in sixth grade. Though their friendship formed first as an alliance at their all-white school, their relationship soon blossomed into something much more, which continued even after Keiko was sent with her family to a Japanese internment camp. Not until half-a-lifetime later does Henry’s son, Marty, learn what really happened to his father during those wartime years, and the truth, unveiled at last, brings with it the hope of healing to their troubled relationship.

Ford tells his story in split narrative: young Henry (1942-45), and old Henry (1986). His prose, though simple and direct, yields emotional impact that ranged for me from shame over this very un-American part of my country’s past; to exasperation over Henry’s unhealthy relationships with his father and his son; to optimism, prompted by words such as Keiko’s father’s as he’s carted from his home: “You just gave me hope, Henry….And sometimes hope is enough to get you through anything.”

Ford saves some surprises for the end that provide a more bitingly satisfying conclusion than I anticipated. A coming-of-age tale and love story all in one, Hotel on the Corner of Bitter and Sweet offers not only a glimpse into an unfortunate period of American history, but also the hope of triumph after adversity.

Enemies of the People, book review

In a departure from my usual fare, Enemies of the People: My Family’s Journey to America is a work of non-fiction by ABC correspondent Kati Marton. This memoir recounts Marton’s journey into her parents’ past when her insatiable yearning for the truth prompts her to request her parents’ AVO files (the AVO being Cold War communist Hungary’s secret police). Before she was granted access, Marton was warned that reading the AVO’s copious files would open for her a Pandora’s box, and so it did – not regarding the AVO’s nefarious activities in the name of “protecting” Hungary’s interests, but regarding her own parents’ willingness to bend, in the end, to accommodate them.

Enemies of the People offers insights into a time and place largely unfamiliar to most Americans. And though my own interest in this subject was heightened by a recent visit to Hungary – during which I gained some understanding of its history – I was surprised to learn how very little I really knew.

I found myself reading and rereading passages, trying to absorb them – not because they were ill-written (they’re not; the book is written with a journalist’s incisive finesse), but because what is recorded seemed so unbelievable. True, I wasn’t interested in all the detailed minutia that Marton includes to support her account, and I was surprised to find a journalist lapsing often into self-conscious sentimentality – a hazard, I suppose, of writing about a painful subject so near to one’s heart. I did appreciate, however, the abundance of family photos, which help to tell the tale - many of which Morton obtained from AVO files.

I suspect that even those familiar with Cold War Europe will find something to intrigue them in these pages. Marton’s memoir is by turn gut-wrenching and eye-opening, and most readers will find it worth a peek.

My Soul to Keep, book review

Seems like 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 for one of her famous glasses of pinot grigio.

In short, this book 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, this one’s it.

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.

Highly recommended.

Sacrament of Lies, book review

My latest read, Sacrament of Lies by Elizabeth Dewberry, was a random pick off the used-book shelf – well, not completely random. I found the premise appealing, as well as the setting, having lived several childhood years in New Orleans. The author, however, was new to me, and therefore a wild card.

Set against the lurid backdrop of Southern politics, the story opens when Grayson Guillory begins to suspect her father, Louisiana’s power-grabbing governor, of murdering her mother. What’s more, Grayson thinks her father’s chief speech writer, Carter – who happens to be her husband – helped cover it up. As she searches for clues to help her divine the truth, Grayson starts questioning her own sanity, and her marriage to Carter falters under the strain of suspicion.

From the opening pages, I was captured by the strength of Dewberry’s writing. She liberally laces her prose with symbolism that exists not for its own sake, but to allow deep dives into character. (“My foot had stopped bleeding, but I’d tracked it onto the carpet, each mark smaller and lighter than the one before, as if I’d gradually disappeared.”) She keeps character sketches sparse but keenly descriptive. (“She was wearing a cat T-shirt and a big pewter cat necklace on a string and slightly too much blush. She reminded me of hot chocolate with marshmallows.”) Her prose reveals her careful study of human nature. Even throwaway comments allow connection to Grayson, the first person narrator, in satisfying resonance. (“part of me missed that elusive comfort that comes when you look at your worn carpet and think, Someday we’ll replace that with a nicer color, and everything will be better.”)

Sacrament of Lies is a smart, fast-paced literary thriller. I swallowed it whole in practically one reading, leaving me sorry the ride was over but anticipating the pleasure of my next Elizabeth Dewberry novel.

The Color of Light, book review

Thirty-something Jillian Parrish, ripely pregnant and newly divorced, returns with her seven-year-old daughter, Grace, to South Carolina’s low country, where she hopes to reclaim the happiness she knew there as a child. Upon arrival, however, she finds not the peace she seeks, but haunting memories of her friend, Lauren, who mysteriously disappeared when they were teenagers. She also encounters enigmatic Linc Rising, Lauren’s boyfriend, who was a suspect in her disappearance sixteen years before. As old secrets come to light, Jillian and Linc uncover not only the truth about Lauren, but the feelings they’ve kept hidden for years.

The Color of Light by Karen White has all the makings of a great read: an intriguing setting, an original premise - equal parts love and ghost story – all woven together by an author I’ve enjoyed before. It also features a cast of characters that includes a ghost, a little girl with a sixth sense and an old soul, a cat named Spot (who believes he’s a dog) with an uncanny ability to see what humans cannot. With all this going for it, it should have been a page turner.

But I found the large chunks of flashback clunky, dragging down the narrative. And the characters’ fears and foibles seem imposed on them rather than organic; clothing they wear instead of the skin they live in.

I kept hoping this novel would deliver the same kind of literary magic that White’s The Memory of Water did, but in this I was disappointed. Despite its potential, The Color of Light missed the mark.

Blue Water, book review

Every so often I stumble on a new (to me) author whose writing is so resonant, I know I’ll be returning to him or her again and again. Such was the case with Anita Shreve, Anne Tyler, Jessica Barksdale Inclan, Ann Patchett, Karen White, Chris Bohjalian – and now A. Manette Ansay.


I knew nothing about Ansay when I picked up Blue Water. I knew only that the premise of her book intrigued me. It starts with an impossible agony: the death of Rex and Meg Van Dorn’s only child, six-year-old Evan, killed when Meg’s former best friend, Cindy Ann, slams drunkenly into their car. In the aftermath, the Van Dorns are shocked when Cindy Ann receives little more than a legal scolding. Enraged and grief-stricken, they buy a sailboat and head for Atlantic blue water, hoping to put as much distance as possible between themselves and Cindy Ann. But when, a year after Evan’s death, Meg returns for her brother’s wedding, she’s forced to confront the complex ties that will forever bind her to her onetime friend.

In Blue Water, Ansay creates original characters, both complicated and vibrant. She writes in clear, unadorned prose, and while she tells the story in Meg’s first person voice, she artfully plays with the narrative, stretching it to encompass Cindy Ann’s voice as well. All the while, she constructs a path that leads Meg to a choice: either life with her husband; or forgiveness that “would enable her, finally, fully, to survive.” The two cannot be had together; Meg must sacrifice one in order to claim the other. And though the ending doesn’t feel happy, it does feel right, and it leaves room for hope – a feat I can attribute only to the enviable skill of the writer.

Digging to America, book review

Every once in a while, when I’m craving a particularly effortless read, I pick up an Anne Tyler novel. Digging to America, my latest pick, opens with an airport scene as two baby girls from Korea arrive in America to be welcomed by their adoptive families: Jin-Ho by the Donaldsons (quintessentially American), and Susan by the Yazdans (Iranian immigrants). And in the first pages, as we explore the cultural and relational ramifications of these collisions of cultures, this seems to be what the story is about. But then, in our periphery, we catch a glimpse of something else: an unlikely relationship blooming between two of the grandparents, Dave Donaldson – recently widowed – and Maryam Yazdan – widowed for many years. Intrigued, we turn for a closer look, and lo and behold, the real story comes into focus: that of Maryam and her up-and-down journey toward acceptance, inclusiveness, and hope.

Tyler builds tension into every page by keeping us pleasantly off balance. She does this by creating full-bodied characters (she’s unflinching in including the bad with the good), who act and react in unexpected, yet completely credible, ways. She is a practiced student of human nature, and when I’m reading her work, I often find myself thinking, Yes, that’s true…people do do that. Tyler’s storytelling is seamless; her graceful prose, transparent. Just as good makeup draws attention to the face, not the product, so too do her words point to the story and not themselves.

Toward the end of her tale, Tyler writes a particularly whimsical chapter from the perspective of Jin-Ho (now age five). As a chapter, it’s an oddity, as the rest are related from either Maryam’s or Dave’s point of view, and I almost had the sense that Tyler wrote it as much to amuse herself as anything. But she pulls it off, and what emerges is a poignant story about belonging that is well worth reading.

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 the 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.) More, though, 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 5-year-old daughter on the back cover, while on page one, she’s 7.

In his seminar, Writing the Breakout Novel, New York 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.

Nineteen Minutes, book review

Jodi Picoult is a brand-name author, which means her name on the cover (four times bigger than the title, by the way) carries with it the weight of reputation, as well as an unspoken promise: satisfaction guaranteed. Does Nineteen Minutes, Picoult’s 2007 offering, live up to her name?

Nineteen Minutes tells the story of a small New Hampshire town after a socially-shunned teenager takes revenge at school by killing ten of his classmates, injuring nineteen more. One of the surviving teens, Josie Cormier, claims to remember nothing of the shooting - or does she? Josie has secrets of her own, and as the trial of her former friend progresses, she and others must consider whether anyone is ever who they seem to be.

Picoult is a master storyteller, weaving the threads of multiple storylines into a vibrant and complex tapestry. She never merely tells something that she could show instead. I love this about her writing. It compels me to keep reading, even through difficult topics or points of view. Her characters ring true, and she dives deep into what makes them tick. She manages to make even villainous characters – such as the mass murderer here – believably sympathetic.

In addition, Picoult’s prose is mostly vibrant and fresh: Josie could feel the weight of the detective’s pity falling over her like a net. Nice. Picoult is also known for writing books that center on topics ripped from today’s headlines, and I like what she says about the ability of her stories to examine difficult truths: “Fiction allows for moral questioning, but through the back door.” As with many of her other books, Picoult doesn’t leave us with an especially happy ending, but she does leave room for hope. I like that, too.

Throughout the 455 pages of this page-turning novel, she spools out the tension, although in Josie’s storyline, I found some gaps in the pacing, which made for a bumpy – and slightly less credible – denouement.

But my biggest sticking point was the ending that Picoult crafted for her story. Though justice is meted out, some aspects of it seemed too harsh, others not harsh enough, which resulted in a conclusion that didn’t seem altogether in sync with the rest of the story.

Still, it was a satisfying read. Does Nineteen Minutes live up to Picoult’s name? On the whole, I’d say yes.

January 12, 2010