Her Sister's Tattoo is three months old today. What a roller-coaster trip it has been, launching a novel into a pandemic followed by massive protests and an impressive rebirth of resistance to racism and economic injustice.
I have felt such a stew of emotions in these three long/short months: fear about COVID, fury at the mismanagement of our country's response, disappointment at not being able to tour with my book, anger at the increasing militarization of police response to demonstrators, sorrow at the loss of friends to the virus, and deep sadness at not being able, as part of a high risk household, to join others in the streets in support of Black Lives Matter.
Three months on, I've figured out some about how to reconfigure my life to online connections and how to redirect my political work. Having a politically-engaged novel launch at this moment in history has brought unexpected opportunities to talk with readers about the parallels between the uprisings of the late 1960's and now. To consider together the same questions activists face 50-odd years later. Questions about the political choices we make, the risks, and the consequences to ourselves and to the people we love.
I've come to understand other benefits in my life of the current situation. I've learned how to promote my novel using virtual events and social media. I appreciate that my carbon footprint is much lower, with no travel and few purchases other than food, books, and game apps so I can play with my grandchildren. I love being able to prepare for book events only from the waist up - a nice shirt, some earrings, and I'm ready. I love not worrying about eating garlic before a reading or book party.
Given the challenging times, I'm grateful to the folks who are generously promoting pandemic-launched books. I'm grateful to those of you who have read Her Sister's Tattoo and sent me emails about your response. Some of you have asked how you can help get the word out about this book and other pandemic-launched titles you've read and enjoyed. I just happen to have a few ideas about how we all can help writers and honor this moment in history:
1. Take a few minutes to put a review and/or rating on Goodreads and Amazon. Seems silly, but they're important to help books find their readers.
2. If you're in a book group, consider selecting titles impacted by the pandemic, as well as books written by writers of color.
3. Word of mouth is so important. Talk with your reading friends and family members about the books that matter to you. And remind them that if they buy books, they should try to purchase from independent and/or BIPOC-owned bookstores.
This virus will probably be with us for much longer than we expect. So wear a mask, take care of yourself, read widely and deeply, and keep in touch.
BETWEEN THE LINES
Her Sister's Tattoo is three months old today. What a roller-coaster trip it has been, launching a novel into a pandemic followed by massive protests and an impressive rebirth of resistance to racism and economic injustice.
We're all terrified about what Covid-19 means for our communities, our loved ones. If we're not frightened, we should be. Many of us are self-isolating, working remotely, not visiting friends and family except virtually. We're washing our hands often, trying not to touch our faces, attempting to balance our reading about the virus to learn what we need to know with ignoring it, so we don't descend into despair or panic.
In the midst of all of this, my new novel, Her Sister's Tattoo is being published. This novel had a 20-year gestation. I wrote the first chapters in early 2000 and have been revising it ever since. Its due date is April 7. My March and April events, including the book launch and party, have been cancelled; the May and June events are most likely next. I feel a bit embarrassed being so miserable about a book when people are dying, but it's my baby.
I'm not alone with this; there's a huge spring list of titles which won't get the usual event exposure at bookstores, libraries, conferences and literary festivals. This also means that our beloved indie bookstores are hurting as well, without in-person event sales and foot traffic.
We do have two things going for us. First of all, most writers are used to spending hours alone to do our work. (Some may even be a tiny bit relieved at not being able to travel and perform.) Secondly, many of us have worked hard to build robust literary communities to nurture and sustain our work.
So, in between bouts of sadness, I'm trying to focus on the new possibilities offered by this situation. Many of these opportunities are online; they offer spring-launching authors ways to reach new readers, many of whom are hunkering down at home with extra reading time.
· Robin Kall of the Reading with Robin podcast has organized festival of author interviews and giveaways called Authorpalooza; the videos are available here. A similar series of FaceBook interviews are online at The Write Review.
· Bestselling novelists Jenna Blum and Caroline Leavitt have launched A Mighty Blaze, a "social media initiative for writers whose in-person tours and events have been canceled, so they can till reach their readers – and so readers will have a place to go every week to find and buy new books."
· National literary organizations are hosting virtual events, including Lit Hub, Litquake, and others.
· Locally, many writing workshops, community writing get-togethers, classes and programs are being offered online. Check websites for Writers in Progress, Pioneer Valley Writers' Workshop, Forbes Library writers' room, and, of course, our own Straw Dog programs.
This is an opportunity for us all to be extra generous with each other. In addition to checking in on friends and neighbors who live alone or are at higher risk of Covid-19 infection and death, and offering to pick up groceries or medications, in addition to virtual visits and meetings, please consider kindness to newly published and vulnerable books.
These "good literary citizen" opportunities could include:
· shouting out a book you're excited about on social media, even more than you might ordinarily do
· pay special attention to new or forthcoming titles that have been impacted by Corona-19 for book club selections
· writing reviews on Goodreads and Amazon, even if you'd rather not
· buying more books than usual, especially since the libraries are closed (although some remote services are available)
· supporting our precious independent bookstores, which often have a very small margin of viability. Many offer online ordering and curbside pickup service. We are so fortunate to have wonderful indie bookstores in our area, including Broadside, Odyssey, Book Moon, Amherst Books, Raven, Montague Book Mill. If we want them to survive, we must support them.
And, in case you're looking for suggestions, pictured above are some of my favorite virus-impacted new books.
Back in August I blogged about my favorite books so far in 2019. Here are four more to finish my year of delicious reading. Since I mostly read books four to six months before they're published (because I'm helping the folks at the Odyssey Bookshop select fiction titles for their wonderful Signed First Edition Club), many of these books aren't out yet. BUT you can pre-order them from your favorite indie bookshop or ask your local library to order them.
AMERICAN DIRT by Jeanine Cummins will be published in January 2020. It has one of the most striking, and devastating, openings I have ever read and is an amazing roller coaster of a journey book. I thought I knew some things about migrants leaving their homes south of our border, but this novel brought my knowledge, empathy, and anger to a whole new level. The author never sacrifices her characters' inner lives to their dire circumstances, offering us an intimate and profound connection with her universe. Highly recommend.
THE GRINGA by Andrew Altschul, coming out in March, is loosely based on the story of the U.S. citizen Lori Berenson who joined revolutionary activists in Peru. In Altschul's very capable hands, the story expands into an exploration of the motivations, decisions, and thought processes of a politically passionate but naive young woman, fighting in a country that is not her own. The narrator, an ex-pat novelist named Andres, bears a strong resemblance to the author, adding a complex literary element to the novel. This is a terrific read, thought-provoking, and important.
GLORIOUS BOY by Aimee Liu won't be out until May, but put it on your list so you don't miss it. The boy is Ty, whose U.S. parents work in the remote Andaman Islands on the cusp of the Japanese invasion during World War II, his father as a physician and his mother as an anthropologist. As the wartime global conflict heats up, Ty is separated from his parents. Beautifully written, this novel asks questions every parent has considered: how far will parents go to find and rescue their child?
BLACKBIRD BLUES by Jean K. Carney is already published, so you can get it right away. Although she dreams of being a jazz singer, entering the convent feels like a way for eighteen-year-old Mary Kaye O'Donnell to escape her dysfunctional family. That is, until she learns that she's pregnant. The one person who could help Mary Kaye navigate an unwanted pregnancy in 1963 Chicago is her voice coach and mentor, Sister Michaeline, who dies suspiciously as Jean K. Carney's luminous debut novel opens. Carney, a former award-winning reporter, editorial writer, and psychologist, offers a nuanced and powerful exploration of women's choices around pregnancy and motherhood in the decades before Roe v. Wade. A really good book group selection.
It's already August, and I'm late with my list of favorite books read in the first half of 2019. I'm grateful for the worlds these books opened up for me, and for the characters they invited me to hang out with while I lived inside their stories.
The Hillsboro Story: A Kaleidoscope History of an Integration Battle in My Hometown, by Susan Banyas. I don't usually read nonfiction, but when Mary Bisbee-Beek tells me to look at a book, I pay attention. This book hooked me right away. The author was an 8-year-old child when she watched black neighbors protest the failure of the town to integrate her white school after Brown v. Board of Education. Decades later, she returns to her childhood home to revisit and explore that legacy. This is a fresh and fascinating look at a critical time in our history.
The Water Dancer, by Ta-Nehisi Coates. Like some of my favorite novels (Exit West, Weather Woman, Kindred), Coates uses a single element of magic realism to animate an otherwise realistic narrative. As in those other books, the out-of-the-usual element has the effect of opening up the story, inviting the reader to make a fictional jump with the author. Loved this book, which will be out in September.
Love That Moves the Sun, by Linda Cardillo. I guess this is a year of new reading experiences for me. I don't often read historical fiction either, but I devoured this story about the 16thcentury Italian poet Vittoria Colonna and the sculptor Michaelangelo. How could I not – it explores art, writing, love, and history.
The Time of Our Singing, by Richard Powers. I blogged earlier that this book had me gobsmacked, and several months later, I still feel the same way. Somehow Powers connects art and time, activism and self-expression, racial and ethnic strife, music and science, in a story that never feels contrived or preachy. It's heartbreaking, beautifully lyrical, and tells an important story for our times.
The Women of the Copper Country, by Mary Doria Russell. What an exciting read! Annie Clements lives in a 1923 copper-mining Michigan town where immigrant miners' lives revolve around daily hardship and frequent underground tragedies. Her struggle for justice in a turbulent time and place is both a dramatic story and an instructive one for readers who care about economic justice today.
Sugar Land, by Tammy Lynne Stoner. Oddly enough, this novel is also set in 1923, but in a very different landscape: Midland, Texas. Young Dara falls for her best girl friend and escapes from that impossible love to work at a state prison, where she becomes friends and allies with the blues singer Lead Belly. A wonderful and compelling story of a young woman, small-town pettiness, and finding her way out.
Prayers for the Stolen, by Jennifer Clement. I heard the author read from this novel last winter and immediately bought and read the book. The main character, Ladydi Garcia Martinez, is a young girl abducted in the Mexican drug trade, and her story feels like fiction ripped from the newspaper. Clement, who is president of PEN International, brings to this story a potent mix of journalism, lyricism, history, and even humor. Highly recommended!
The Butterfly Girl, by Rene Denfeld. I loved Denfeld's first two novels and eagerly awaited this one. It did not disappoint. She once again weaves compelling story-telling with lyrical writing and strong characters – a young girl living on the street and traumatized by sexual abuse, and an investigator in search of her own sister, kidnapped two decades earlier. Denfeld writes about things that matter. There's a lot at stake in this novel, and the author takes us there without flinching.
On Earth We're Briefly Gorgeous, by Ocean Vuong. This is a hard book to describe, beyond the jacket text that it's a letter from a son to a mother who cannot read. It's so much more: It's poetry. It's family history and legacy. It's about love. About being an outsider. About finding one's self and one's story. About the importance of story.
My book group is 25 years old this year. We formed at a local independent bookstore, but switched to meeting in members' homes about a decade later. (Full disclosure: we were asked to leave. Sometimes there were author events at the store at the same time and our book discussions were too noisy!)
We chose the Stones & Bones name because of some of our favorite reads those first few years (Stones from the River, The Bone People, Stone Diaries). Over the years, the vast majority of our selections are contemporary literary fiction, but we've also read memoirs, other nonfiction, poetry, and classics. Occasionally we'll read two books, either together or over two months. Recently, for example, we read the novel There Thereand the nonfiction book Rez Life, and we went together to the film Dawnland. Most of the time, however, we gather in a living room with tea and wine, nibbles and the novel we've all read and are eager to discuss. Heavenly.
Most people think of reading as an individual experience, but literary discussion groups are part of a tradition that is centuries old. Before books were readily available, sharing them and reading aloud made a lot of sense. In 15thcentury France, a group of women gathered to spin during the long winter evenings, reading aloud to each other from books written "against the honor of the female sex" and making disparaging comments. In the mid 17thcentury, British mill workers met at 5 a.m. to read Shakespeare together before their shift.
In addition to typical book groups, a Google search reveals some unusual ones: a "context-dependence and monsters reading group" at MIT, a Buffy discussion group at a Chicago bookstore, a walking book group across Hampstead Heath, knitting book groups, Black Lives Matter and Active Citizen book groups, bilingual book groups.
Although the Stones & Bones membership has changed some over the years, most of us have been reading together for a couple of decades. What a pleasure it is; happy book group birthday to us.
I am gobsmacked.
Since I don't think I've ever used that word before, either spoken or written, I looked it up. Merriam-Webster dictionary says it means "overwhelmed with wonder, surprise, or shock: astounded." Yup, that's exactly how I feel on finishing reading Richard Power's THE TIME OF OUR SINGING.
I mostly read contemporary novels by women authors, both because I tend to like them better and because the literary landscape is so uneven, and my book-buying and reading habits can do a tiny bit to level that terrain. But after finishing OVERSTORY, I needed to know what else this man has written.
In extraordinary and lyrical prose, THE TIME OF OUR SINGING explores connections between art and science, between activism and creative self-expression, between the towering dissonances of our world: race and ethnic strife. The coming-together of things that don't easily fit is a central question of the novel.
The story begins when Delia, a young black vocal student, meets David, a physicist immigrant Jew from eastern Europe, in 1939 at the Marian Anderson concert on the D.C. Mall. They fall in love, and marry, wanting to raise a family beyond race. Their three children are biracial, fitting into neither world, and they are musical prodigies. But both Delia and David's cultures have a similar saying: The bird and the fish can fall in love. But where they gonna build their nest?
The novel is told in a series of prose melodies, harmonies, dissonances and extraordinary symphonies. David studies the nature of time, so that theme weaves in and out of the story as well. The book is too long, with too much musical theory and description for my taste, but the central narrative is heartbreaking, important, and so beautifully sung.
Hala Alyan: Salt Houses. This debut novel gives us the multigenerational story of a Palestinian family – moving from a young girl’s fortune seen in coffee dregs to the dispersal of the family in the 1967 Six-Day War and the many subsequent moves and changes. It’s a story of political conflict, mourning home and trying to set down new roots, and the emotional realities of being foreign. Lovely writing and wonderfully drawn characters.
Cecil Bødker: The Water Farm. This translation from the Danish by Michael Goldman makes it clear why Cecil Bødker is one of Denmark’s most beloved writers. This short novel, the second in a trilogy, is about a small “family” of social outcasts on an abandoned farm in the 1800’s. It is mesmerizing and tender, deceptively simple. It’s amazing how relevant this book is now, as it explores the making of art and the forging of human connections outside of society norms.
Wiley Cash: The Last Ballad. This novel touched on so much I care about. Ella May is a young Appalachian mill worker in 1929 who must balance supporting her children with her yearning for justice and a more full life. The red-baiting by the mill owners, racism and fear within the union, Ella May’s courage and the legacy she leaves her children and grandchildren make this a deeply satisfying historical novel.
Joan Dempsey: This is How It Begins. This debut novel begins when a group of gay teachers are fired for not allowing their students to express their Christian values igniting a fierce political battle about religious bias in schools. The grandmother of one of the teachers is an elderly art professor who has been hiding a value painting stolen by the Nazi’s. Dempsey skillfully weaves these two storylines together, while asking the reader to consider the passions of characters with widely different views about the world.
Rene Denfield: The Child Finder. This is both a suspenseful page-turner and a poignant tale of abuse and loss. Eight-year-old Madison disappeared three years ago, and private investigator Naomi is searching for her. Madison’s ordeal, and the story of Naomi’s own childhood story, are both heartbreaking and hopeful. Not an easy book to read, but I’m very glad I did. As she did in her last novel, The Enchanted, Denfield finds redemption in the most difficult situations and the lyricism of her prose carries you along on the journey.
Laleh Khadivi: A Good Country. I bought this book after hearing the author interviewed on NPR. The premise – a teenage boy of Pakistani descent growing up in Orange County and trying to figure out who he is – compelled me less than the nuance and thoughtfulness with which the author described his journey. The book did not disappoint me; it was thought-provoking and I still think about it, months after reading the last page.
Jan Maher: Earth as It Is. Set in the 1930’s, the story is about a heterosexual cross-dresser. I was quickly drawn into Charlie’s early struggles to understand his desire to dress in women’s clothes – hardly acceptable in small-town Texas society – and his transformation into Charlene, owner and operator of the beauty parlor in Heaven, Indiana. The pleasure of this novel comes both from the author’s strong, understated prose and the main character’s innate goodness in the face of an impossible situation.
Home Fire, Kamila Shamsie. Shamsie is one of my very favorite authors (her Burnt Shadows is one of my very favorite novels), and I think Home Fire is probably the book I loved most this year. It is a retelling of Antigone (but don’t let that deter you; I didn’t realize it until I was almost finished with my first reading!) that takes us from Northampton, MA to London to Pakistan. Isma and her twin siblings Aneeka and Parvaiz must negotiate their needs for love, work, and coming of age in a world that does not welcome their complicated family legacy. Gorgeous writing and so much to think about.
These elements coming together – family and social justice and writing and community - is satisfying on both a personal and political level. I could not have been happier, or more proud. Equally amazing was the audience, many writers and artists, who told me about the convergence of these elements in their own lives and work. Patricia Smith said that sometimes it feels like we’re writing into a void. We need to support each other’s words of resistance. We need to remind each other that we’re together in this work.
As a community, we needed Sunday’s program, and we need more convergences like it, opportunities to celebrate our commitment to justice and to writing, and to the ways they work together to illuminate our world and to change it.
This post was reprinted from the Straw Dog Writers Guild blog Read More
Six weeks ago we moved into a condo. Downsizing. It’s two rooms smaller than the house we left. So my books (alphabetized of course) weaved through the house. A to D waited in boxes. E to J in the dining room, K to O in the alcove between the bedrooms, P to S in my writing room, and on to Z in our bedroom. But yesterday we came home from vacation to ten feet of floor to ceiling maple bookshelves built into the hallway in the new condo. Built not by elves, but by our master carpenter friend David. Now, A through O are happy on the new shelves, and the rest still at home on other shelves.
There’s a metaphor in there, somewhere, I think. Maybe something about how books are part of every moment of my life. Or perhaps how, when I’m writing a novel manuscript, the narrative weaves through the minutes of my day. Or maybe no useful metaphor at all, just the profound pleasure of beloved books on wooden shelves. Alphabetized, of course.
The conversations started nine years ago when my mother died. She was 90 and was cremated, as she had requested. I picked up the box of ashes from the funeral home. That’s when the argument started.
“What shall we do with Mom’s ashes?” I asked my father.
“It doesn’t matter,” he said. “She’s gone. That’s not Pauline in the box.”
My sister Carol and I exchanged glances. Of course, that’s not really our mother in the plain cardboard box, but it sort of is. And we had to do something with the ashes, right?
Maybe not. A scientist by training, our dad grew up in an Orthodox Jewish household and wanted nothing to do with religion. He refused to sit Shiva or have any kind of ceremony, even a totally secular one. As the next of kin, he had the right to make that decision, but it felt wrong to me. I made a small ceremony with my husband and our daughters. We looked at photos of my mother and told stories and remembered.
But that still didn’t deal with her ashes. My sister and I live 90 miles apart. I wanted to divide the ashes in two parts, so we could each bury half in our yards, under the flowering bushes our mother loved so much. It seemed like a reasonable thing, except that one extended family member hated the thought of dividing Pauline in half. She couldn’t bear the idea of the ashes not being together, intact.
“Mom wouldn’t have cared about that,” I said. But my sister insisted we respect the dissenting view and keep the ashes together. I gave in. We decided to bury Pauline under an azalea bush at my sister’s house. Mom had beautiful azaleas in our yard in Maryland and Carol inherited her green thumb.
However, I cheated. Before I brought the ashes to Carol, I took a small baggie’s worth out of the box, and kept it. I didn’t tell my sister.
Now our father has died, six months short of his 100th birthday. Since he couldn’t object, we sat Shiva for him, a lovely afternoon with family and friends. We looked at photos and talked about him. I miss my father a lot.
His ashes sat for weeks in a box on my desk. What to do with them? It didn’t make sense to bury them at my house. I’m moving and my house will soon be occupied by people who never knew Jack. Carol and I agreed easily this time. His ashes will be mixed with Mom’s under Carol’s azalea bush. Because Mom loved plants but Dad did most of the weeding. Maybe we’ll do it on their shared birthday in July. Maybe some of the grandchildren and great-grandchildren will join us.
But first, I took a scoop of Dad’s ashes out of the box, and added them to Mom’s ashes in a small glass jar. They are different colors; I don’t know why.
I also can’t tell you why I find it comforting to have the jar of ashes on a shelf over my desk. But I do. Read More