K. Lang-Slattery's Blog

A Man In Love With His Wife.

Sicily, near Palermo. 1972

We met Albert and Rosalia fifty years ago, and our few minutes of friendship shine in my memory. Tom and I were on the honeymoon of a lifetime, living in a Volkswagen van and traveling from one continent to another, from one country to another. Twenty-four hours before, we had endured a long and rough crossing from Tunisia to Palermo. Exhausted, we stumbled off the ship and stood in line for Italian customs. Once in our van, we located a local grocery to buy supplies and a gas station for fuel, chores that were always an exhausting adventure in each new country.

It was already late afternoon when we drove out into the countryside to search for a place to park the van and sleep. Bone-weary, we took the first farm road we could find and settled on a quiet loop surrounded by fields. After a quick meal, we collapsed on our bed as daylight faded into dusk. We did not stir until the following morning.

We awoke to bright April sunshine edging through the curtains. The camping spot we had found in our sleep-deprived stupor was near a bridge over an irrigation ditch. Fields and farmland stretched out on both sides. From our bed, I reached across to our two-burner stove, and like every morning, I put the kettle on to boil. Tom opened the van door to let the spring sunshine bathe us in its warm glow. It was the glorious kind of morning that made the stress of constant travel worthwhile.

Before the water for my tea and Tom’s coffee came to a boil, he heard the chug of a car pull up next to us. A dusty Volkswagen bug had stopped near the bridge, and three men emerged. Two walked to the bridge and knelt to check a gauge that hung down into the flowing water. The third man was blond and stocky, a picture-perfect Sicilian. I hoped he had not come to chase us away from this idyllic spot which was certainly private property.

The man came to our open door. “Hello,” he said. “American?”

Tom stepped down from the van. “Yes, Americans. California.” We found almost everyone we met, even country people, knew of California, home to Disneyland and Hollywood.

“La mia tera. La mia Fattoria.” The man swung his arm in an arc toward the fields bordering the road and the structures in the distance. “Ben venuto.”

Tom smiled and offered his hand. The farmer grasped it firmly in both of his and pumped it up and down slowly. “Sorry. No Italiano,” Tom said. “Español?” He pointed to me. “Mi mujer, Katie . . . esposa.” He touched the wedding ring on his finger, then put his hand on his chest. “Tomas,” he said.

The young farmer touched his chest with the flat of his palm. “Alberto.” It was obvious we had no language in common, but Alberto’s broad smile spoke of our welcome. He peered into the van, obviously curious. “Per favore. È la tua casa?

I understood the word “casa” and invited him inside with a gesture. Alberto stepped into our microbus and looked around, his eyes wide. I pointed out our built-in amenities—a stove, a tiny refrigerator, a sink with pressure-pumped water, our wide, foldable bed, and the small closet. I hoped that my limited Spanish would sound close enough to the Italian that he spoke. “Estufa. Lavabo. Agua. Bed for dormir. Closet . . . para ropa.”

Alberto looked around and nodded his head in appreciation of each item. When he had seen everything, he stepped out of the small space. “Grazie,” he said. He looked back and forth between Tom and me. I caught his glance at my flat stomach. “No Bambini?” Alberto asked. We understood this and would soon learn it was one of the first questions most Italians asked.

Tom laughed and shook his head. “No Bambini.” He pointed again to his gold wedding band. “Solo ocho meses.” He held up eight fingers to show the number of months we had been married.

The farmer smiled and pointed to himself. “Si, a me, otto mesi.” He also held up eight fingers and pointed to the ring on his left hand. “La mia donna. Con il bambino . . . presto!” His face beamed with pride for his impending fatherhood.

I spread my arms to encompass our tiny home. “Very pequeño, too small . . . para un bambino,” I said. Alberto seemed to understand my mash-up of English and Spanish because he nodded again and laughed.

His compatriots finished checking the gauges and the irrigation ditch and came over to the van. They stood by the door, and Alberto spoke to them in lilting Italian. They smiled in unison and stretched out their hands in greeting. “Bye. Bye,” Alberto said, and they all climbed into their VW bug and rumbled off down the dirt road.

I sighed in relief. We had not been told to leave. Our first glorious morning in Sicily stretched ahead.

With our bed folded away, Tom and I sat at our tiny table, sipping from steaming mugs, enjoying the earthy smell of farmland and the volcanic slopes of Mount Etna in the distance. We were still talking dreamily of our plans to see the nearby ancient Greek ruins when Alberto returned. This time his companion was a pretty, young woman whose pregnant belly filled her loose dress. Our friend put his arm around her waist and grinned. “Rosalia,” he said. He tenderly touched her swollen abdomen and added, “Bambino.”

Rosalia smiled shyly and offered us a bottle of milk with one hand, four eggs cradled in the other. Her husband spoke for her. “Per te. Un regalo.” He made the hand gestures of milking a cow, pulling on invisible cow teats, then grinned, and pointed to the eggs. “Uova. Cluck. Cluck. Polli?”

“Si. Grazie.” Tom assured him we understood. “Pollo en Espanol. Chicken in English.”

Alberto whispered in his wife’s ear. She went back to the car and returned with a photo album cradled in her arms. She smiled shyly and held it out for me to take. “Foto del matrimonio,” Alberto said.

Tom and I both understood that the couple wanted to share these mementos of their wedding with us. We perched together on the threshold of the van and looked through the photos—a beautiful Rosalia with flowers in her hair and Alberto in a black suit beside her, the two of them holding hands on the church steps, and several shots of family and friends seated at a long table under a grape arbor. The album continued with countless pictures of guests dancing or raising glasses of wine in a toast. The pictures brought back memories of our own garden celebration, and Tom squeezed my hand as we turned the pages.

When we had finished looking at all the photos, I handed the book back to Rosalia with both hands as if it were a sacred offering. I treasured her willingness to share as much as she treasured the album itself. “Thank you,” I said, “Grazie.”

Alberto and Rosalia smiled, and their eyes glistened with love and hope. “Arrivederci. Andare con Dio,” Alberto said. Rosalia only nodded. In her shyness, she had not said a single word. Alberto waved his hand gaily as he drove away, and Rosalia’s glowing smile shone through her window. Tom and I watched the little car rumble down the road, a swirl of dust following as it turned toward their home, a place we knew had a cow, chickens, and a grape arbor—a place filled with love.

I have thought of Alberto and Rosalia often over the years, and I wonder how their marriage fared. Did this Sicilian man love his wife with continuing devotion, or did his eye begin to wander to younger women? Did Rosalia remain the silent acquiescent partner we saw, or did she become a domineering and opinionated woman, directing family matters with a firm hand? I will never know what path their marriage took, but I’m sure that however their relationship evolved, they are still together. For Alberto and Rosalia, deep in the Sicilian ethic of lasting marriage, divorce would not have been an option.

My marriage, so happy and filled with hope during that traveling honeymoon, ended after thirty-one years. Tom and I did have bambinos, a daughter and a son, a dream of family we fulfilled together. But after both good and not-so-good years, we divorced when we realized that we were at our best as a couple only when traveling. As it turned out, we were not so well suited when it came to the day-to-day give-and-take of homebound life with children. Still, Tom and I have remained friends, and we often remember together the joys of that long-ago honeymoon trip.

When I think of our Italian friends, I remember how Alberto radiated with love for his wife, for their coming bambino, for his farm, and for the country life they shared. I hope he and Rosalia never longed for anything else. I like to close my eyes and picture them today as one of those long-married couples of romantic lore—an elderly man who still adores his wife and a doting wife who defers to her husband and offers hospitality to strangers.

In my imagination, they have recently celebrated their 50th wedding anniversary with a party under the grape arbor. Perhaps Rosalia has made another picture album. There will be photos of Alberto seated in the shade, his hands clasped on the curve of his cane, and another with Rosalia seated next to him, their shoulders touching and their hands clasped together. Their faces glow with smiles that break apart the wrinkles of age. There will be pictures of the two of them surrounded by their adult children, certainly more than one, all in their mid-to-late 40s. In other photos, their grandchildren, teens and adults in their twenties, fiddle with their cell phones or raise glasses of wine. Most likely, there will be great-grandchildren pictured too, young ones kicking soccer balls or hanging on their grandpa’s knee.

How I envy the dreams those two probably fulfilled! They were our friends for only a moment, but they showed me a glimpse of a simple life overflowing with love and grandchildren—something Tom and I hoped to find, but our story turned out differently.

. . .

A Man In Love With His Wife was inspired by a section of my memoir, Wherever the Road Leads, published in 2020. Originally shorter, the memory has been expanded with details and reflection. If you enjoyed A Man In Love With His Wife, you might also enjoy reading the full memoir.

https://www.amazon.com/Wherever-Road-Leads-Memoir-Travel-ebook/dp

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Inside a Book

Book design is the graphic art of determining the visual and physical characteristics of a book. (https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Book_de...)

Open a book, and what do you see? Words. There may be illustrations or a map, but most of all there are pages and pages of those wonderful words and sentences we writers labor to place in ways that convey feelings, ideas, characters, and places.

All those words inside a book don’t just fall by themselves into pleasing, easy-to-read fonts arranged in paragraphs and chapters, with page breaks, chapter headings, and page numbers marching along in sync. Making sure a book’s interior suits the story and genre is as important as creating an appropriate and eye-catching cover. Decisions need to be made. All this is the collaborative task of the book designer and the publisher.

Recently I have had to set aside my writer’s cap and put on the hat of a publisher. In previous posts, I’ve talked about book covers and genres. As a self-publisher, the most difficult task is making the multitude of necessary decisions about my book’s interior. The countless possibilities and variations are overwhelming. Luckily, I have a wonderful book designer who has worked with me on all my published books. Lorie is experienced, competent, and patient (she must be, as I ask to see countless variations and new samples.) Lorie knows her stuff.

To begin the process, I send Lorie a description of the book’s story, including the genre (yes, that again), and segments of the manuscript, including the title page and sections that will need special treatment. With that input from me, Lorie creates preliminary samples. We both knew this is only the beginning.

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Back-and-forth emails begin to arrive on a regular basis. I study the samples and send a list of the things I like in each—the placement of the page numbers in one sample, the layout of the epigraph in another, the fonts in both, and so on. Next, Lorie creates a composite that includes all the things I like in a single example.

Still more fine-tuning. We try several other fonts. We switch the page numbers from the bottom of each page to the top. As Ashes and Ruins contains diary entries and letters written by several characters, there are unique formatting decisions to make for this current project. How should the diary entries be different from the narrative text? What symbol would be best to indicate the shift between diary and narrative? Should the correspondence be in italics or in a totally different font? How would it look to use individual signature styles in script for various characters who write letters? It is up to me to make the final decisions on everything, and Lorie patiently implements my choices.

When we both feel the interior design looks the best it can, I send Lorie the finished manuscript, as well as files of the front and back matter. Now it is crunch time. Quite literally. Lorie carefully fits everything into a PDF file with the appearance of the final book—everything from the title page to “Other books by this author” at the end.

Opening that PDF is my first glimpse of what the inside of my book will look like to readers. But this is not the end of the work. Now, the grueling job of final proofreading needs to be done. Both my editor and I must read the manuscript through yet again to find all overlooked errors, missed words, typos, and more. Yes, more. It is truly amazing how many problems appear as if by black magic now that the words are in a PDF. I will tackle the subject of editing and final proofreading another time. It is still in process as I write this.

Each stage of the work that leads to a finished book is challenging and requires decisions by the publisher (self or traditional), but the expertise of a good book designer can make the inside of a book sing. Thank you, Lorie.

Lorie DeWorken – MindtheMargins.com – Lo***@************ns.com

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Finding the right Label

AS AN AUTHOR, I WRESTLE with many decisions when I prepare a book for publication. This is especially true because I choose to self-publish. Besides working with my editor to fine-tune the manuscript, I must write a description, nail down a title, work with a designer to create a book cover, and decide how to classify my book.

Like many authors, I feel close to my project—a tender and protective love not unlike what a parent feels for their newborn. Labeling my “baby” is difficult, but even human babies are given bracelet labels in the hospital to ensure the right parents take them home. Selecting a book’s genre is a bit like attaching an ID bracelet to a baby’s wrist—a way to help readers find the perfect book to take home and love.

Luckily, we are allowed to choose more than one genre, like choosing a given name, a middle name, a surname, and maybe even a nickname for a child. I’m fairly sure where my new book, Ashes and Ruins, fits, but I wanted to see how the publishing industry defines various genres.

In literature, genres are a way of understanding works based on their form, content, and style. The definitions of individual genres, the number of genres recognized, and what subgenres cluster under them vary from source to source. The publishing industry is rapidly changing, as are the genres they recognize. Book award contests each have their own list of categories too. The Independent Publisher’s book award lists 100 genres, and fully twenty pertain to adult fiction, while the Writers’ Digest book award has only two genres in adult fiction—mainstream/literary and genre fiction (everything else).

Genre listings dependably include staples like romance, historical fiction, fantasy, science fiction, and thriller. Longer lists will have a few less common categories, such as erotica, horror, war and military, coming of age, LGBTQ, and inspirational. Add to that possible subgenres (ancient Rome, Edwardian, and WWII under historical fiction) and overlaps (historical fiction with a magical twist that might also be classified as fantasy). Given so many choices and variations, the search for the best genre for a book can be daunting.

Recently, I attended a book club meeting where we talked about AI 2041: Ten Visions for Our Future by Kai-Fu Lee and Chen Qiufan. The discussion was lively, and among other things, we touched on how AI will inevitably affect writing. One member of the group, also a writer, said she was experimenting with AI to help with self-editing. Another woman said she loved using AI for research. This inspired me to ask an AI app to clarify the genres into which my book might fit. The search was a bit like using a baby name book to find the meaning of favorite names.

I asked my questions of AI in various ways: “What does the designation ‘historical fiction’ indicate?” “What is meant by ‘book club fiction’?” “How do major publishers define women’s fiction and book club fiction?” The information returned was self-affirming, interesting . . . and fast!

Ashes and Ruins is set in Germany and London between 1934 and 1943, so I knew it would qualify as historical fiction, not to mention the subgenre of WWII fiction. AI reaffirmed this and added that historical fiction should engender research-based authenticity, be a blend of fact and fiction, and help readers learn about a particular historical period. Bingo! As expected, my book hits all those notes.

However, I am anxious to go beyond standard historical fiction and reach a wider audience. I wanted to confirm that Ashes and Ruins would also fit into the classification of women’s fiction, which targets a female audience, especially women over twenty-five. My AI app indicated that this genre focuses on women’s life experiences and emotional journeys, the protagonists are usually female, the story focuses more on the characters than the plot, and themes of motherhood, marriage, divorce, and personal growth are prominent. While women’s fiction may have romance, AI added, romance is not necessarily the main storyline, nor does the romance need to have a “happily ever after” ending. Most of all, I was reassured to see the caveat that any reader, male or female, who likes stories based on character development can be a good match for books in this category.

In spite of this reassurance, the very name, “women’s fiction,” might be too gender-specific and thus could be off-putting to men. I believe Ashes and Ruins rises above sexism and carries a contemporary vibe, even though the setting is historical and the characters, both male and female, must be understood in their historical context. Most of all, they are people with human foibles and weaknesses, and their lives come with the messiness that engenders.

There was another category I was curious about, one not usually used as a genre in publishing circles, except in their marketing departments. Book club fiction is considered slightly upmarket, perhaps halfway between women’s fiction and literary fiction. AI described this type of fiction as “a specific marketing designation that refers to novels designed to spark discussion and appeal to reading groups.” Book club fiction, my AI app indicated, is generally written in an engaging way, both stylistically and with enough plot momentum to keep the reader turning pages. These novels address significant topics that lead to conversations about moral dilemmas, family secrets, social issues, or complex relationships. Among other social issues, Ashes and Ruins deals with the stresses of marital problems and unplanned pregnancy, making it discussable in a book group setting.

My AI sources added that book club fiction is marketed to libraries and book groups and often includes discussion questions. In the past I have been successful giving presentations to small groups, and I love talking to readers. I look forward to sharing Ashes and Ruins with book lovers in the same way I did my earlier novel, Immigrant Soldier.

I enjoyed my AI experiment, especially the speed with which responses arrived. I also appreciated the occasional links to sources that allowed me to double-check the information. Examples:

https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/List_of_writing_genres

Literary Fiction vs. Genre Fiction

With the help of AI to research the definitions of different genres, I feel confident Ashes and Ruins fits beautifully into at least two major and one marketing category . . . so, three ways to lead different readers to my book.

The post Finding the right Label appeared first on Klang Slattery.

Finding My Jewish Story

I EXPERIENCED EUROPE for the first time on a family trip in the summer of 1960.  My seventeen-year-old romantic heart fell in love with Venice with its pastel buildings, sparkling water, twisting alleyways, and spires gleaming in the sun. Even the presence of my mother with her rules and judgements and my little sister with her tears could not ruin my first trip to Europe. I had no idea that in Germany I would discover a secret that would change who I was.

 In the land of my father’s birth, I found no romance in the heavy food, the square houses, and the stout people. We were in Bavaria, visiting family I didn’t know, and on the day of my revelation, we went to a cemetery.  

The tires of the black Mercedes crunched across gravel as we passed under an iron gateway. Aunt Ida parked the car and got out. Not my aunt, she was my father’s aunt, his mother’s younger sister. Ida’s straight back and black suit commanded respect as she strode across the grass among the gravestones. Her granddaughter, Renata, my newly discovered second cousin, followed her with a bouquet of flowers in her arms.  Even though Renata was only fifteen, something about her reminded me of my grandmother, my father’s mother, back in California.

The scent of pine and mountain air drew me out of the car.  My young sister looked up through wisps of straight blonde hair and twisted in her seat. Mother held tightly to her wrist. “We’re going to wait here,” she said, her voice icy. She had made it clear that she disliked cemeteries.  Dad rambled off by himself, oblivious to everyone’s discomfort.  He stood where the grass met the trees and stared into the shadowy forest. Happy to be away from my mother and squirming little sister, I tagged after Aunt Ida and Renata.

In Italy, I had seen plenty of crypts, but I’d only been to a cemetery once, seven years before when I was barely ten. My mother, who had made it clear she hated funerals, had never-the-less taken me to her father’s internment. I vaguely remembered the green, tree-studded, memorial park and the deep hole into which his gray coffin was lowered.

This German cemetery seemed oddly neglected. There were no even rows of white headstones, no brass plaques nestled into a neatly clipped lawn.  The grass was overgrown and lumpy in places and brown in others. Most of the blackened and chipped gravestones tipped drunkenly or were half buried as if they were hiding. Some stones were inscribed with a queer kind of writing, lines and curves even stranger than the old-fashioned German letters I had seen in the books my father kept on his bookshelf. 

Aunt Ida and Renata stopped near a solitary stone monument, the only new one I could see. Aunt Ida bent down and picked up a round smooth stone. She rubbed its surface with her thumb, then laid it on top of the headstone. Renata quietly laid the flowers at the base and turned away.

 I lingered. I could not read the German words carved into the stone. Below the epitaph, the name of Aunt Ida’s late husband, David Erlanger, and his dates of birth and death, January 1880 to October 1956, were all that made sense to me. Above the name, a star with six-points outlined in gold  ̶̶  a Jewish Star of David.  I turned around and searched the graveyard. None of the other graves had flowers and there were no crosses anywhere. 

As we walked back to the car, I fell in beside Aunt Ida.  “Were you born Jewish?” I asked.  “Was my grandmother born Jewish too?”

Aunt Ida stopped. She looked at me, her eyes both tired and sad. “Born Jewish?” she said.  “Yes, and still Jewish.  Once Jewish, always Jewish. Especially in Germany where all it took to be Jewish was two grandparents who had once prayed in a synagogue.”

Ida’s response puzzled me, but I didn’t know her well enough to ask all the questions that swirled in my head. The year before, I had seen the movie The Diary of Anne Frank. The weird, undulating sound of Gestapo police sirens, a symbol for fear in the movie soundtrack, stuck in my mind like a burr under a sock. When I had heard the same siren sound again a few weeks before, a spontaneous chill of terror crept up my spine. I wondered why Germany still use that awful noise.

The afternoon in the cemetery was the beginning of years trying to make sense of my father’s family history. The Holocaust was not yet a common concept in the minds of high school students. Little more than twenty years had passed since Hitler had first poisoned Germany, then all of Europe. School children knew about Hitler and the Nazis, but history textbooks used in the public schools were still silent about the worst part of the story. It was all waiting for me to learn.

Born during World War II, I was raised in a small coastal town in southern California. Unlike my friend’s parents, mine never attended church, though I was dropped off at Sunday school as a young child, I think so my working mother could have time to herself for an hour. I knew nothing of my father’s early life other than he spent his childhood in Germany and, at the age of nineteen, he immigrated to the United States. When asked why he left his home, he always said, “I did not agree with Hitler’s policies.” All I really knew about Hitler was that he hated Jews, he had been a dictator, and he started a war. In elementary school, I had been taunted by finger pointing children who yelled, “Nazi! Nazi! Your father is a Kraut!”

Back in California, one of the first things I did was visit my grandmother who lived next door in a cottage owned by my father. I loved her more than anyone else in my family, and after hugs, I shared my enthusiasm for riding a gondola in Venice and eating a Michelien starred dinner of “Truite au Bleu” in France.

“Mother refused to go inside the restaurant because Karen started complaining of a tummy ache. They stayed in the car, and I had Daddy all to myself. . . It was heaven! And in Paris, I went to the Eifel Tower all by myself because Mother was too tired and Daddy wouldn’t leave her that night.”  Finally, I told Grandmother about the afternoon excursion to the cemetery with her sister. “Why did you never tell me you were Jewish?” I asked.

I was surprised when she turned away and fidgeted with her coffee cup.   

“I promised your father I’d keep it a secret,” she said. “He’ll be angry if he thinks I told you. When I arrived here when you were a baby, he made me promise to never speak of it.” She seemed genuinely frightened at the thought of my father’s reaction, which didn’t make sense as he was slow to anger and quick to get over it. “Your mother won’t allow any talk of being Jewish,” she whispered. “Her father was from Texas—a Southerner with strong prejudices.”

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Early Days; the writer and her grandmother.

Ah, now it started to make sense. “But why? Why would Daddy do go along with that?”

Grandmother shook her head. “Your mother will not countenance any talk of why we really left Germany.”  She paused. “And maybe your father was afraid for us after what happened.”

“But were you truly Jewish?  When you were a child?  What did that mean?  What was your family like? What makes a person Jewish?  Isn’t it just a religion?”  I had a million questions. Though the Pledge of Allegiance I’d learned in grammar school said something about “one nation under God,” I understood God to be a part of all religions, not just Christianity.

Hesitantly, my grandmother began to tell me about her childhood in Germany. Her answers were short and seldom revealed much, but one thing she said made an indelible impression.

“I can never trust anyone with a German accent, not since Hitler,” she told me. “Not until I know the person is Jewish . . . do I feel safe.” 

My grandmother and I had always been close. I had even lived with her for six months when I was in middle school and my parents went on a long trip around the world.  Now we had an added bond — a shared secret. The secrecy turned the mystery of my father’s Jewish connection into an obsession. My interest would slowly expand to antisemitism, the war, and Hitler’s Jewish policies, but for now I simply wanted to understand Judaism and what it meant.

I made friends with the only girl in school I knew to be Jewish. She wore a Star of David on a silver chain. “You’re not really Jewish,” she told me, “Your mother has to be Jewish for you to be a Jew.” Later she gave me a necklace like hers. “I guess you’re half Jewish anyway,” she said. I wore the star on its chain under my blouse to conceal it from my parents, but I showed it to Grandmother.

The next year, I moved away from home to live at college. Finally, I could explore Judaism openly. I made another Jewish friend. I joined Hillel, the Jewish Youth group and became the club secretary. I was surprised when the president of the group said he was an atheist. Obviously, there must be more to being Jewish than religion. So what was it? A culture? A race? A set of beliefs?  A common history? “All of those,” my new friend told me. I wrote a long letter to my grandmother telling her of my discoveries and my activities with Hillel. I had no idea the letter would cause so much pain.

My grandmother, who depended on my parents for almost everything, did not have her own mailbox. I thought my mother respected the privacy of the US mail, but I should have known better―she did not respect the privacy of her mother-in-law. Later, my grandmother wrote to me about the evening my letter arrived.

She explained that my mother handed the letter to her at dinner. “You have a letter from Katie,” my mother said. “Will you read it to us.” My grandmother wrote that she tried to deflect the suggestion. She said she was tired and would read it later. It was the first letter from me addressed to her alone and she feared I might be careless and speak of our secret. She knew me well. Grandmother wrote that Mother had insisted she read the letter out loud. My father said nothing to help her. He knew better than to contradict my mother who ruled supreme at home.

I imagine Grandmother began to read slowly in her soft, German accented voice. Perhaps she hoped to skip over anything problematic.  But I had written only about Jewish things ― my new friend, joining Hillel, and all I was learning there. There was nothing else to read. My grandmother was trapped by my words.  

Two letters told me what happened. First one from my mother and a few days later the letter from Grandmother. I’m sure my mother wrote her scathing letter to me that same night. My memory of what she wrote goes something like this: “You are not Jewish. Your father is not Jewish! Your obsession with this Jewish idea is ridiculous. Stop at once!  You are forbidden to write any more of these letters to your grandmother. The subject is closed.”  I could feel her anger hot on the page.  

Of course, this did not stop me. I stayed in Hillel and made more Jewish friends.  Starting with This Is My God, by Herman Wouk and Exodus by Leon Uris, I read everything I could about being Jewish, about Judaism, Jewish history, and antisemitism in Germany.  

I did not write any more troublesome letters to my grandmother. But when I visited her cottage, we continued to talk about her past and what I was learning.  Sipping from her tiny glass of schnapps, Grandmother shared a little more each time we were together. Gradually, by continuing to ask questions, I unraveled the truth of her upbringing, her unhappy arranged marriage, my father’s childhood in Germany, the sudden death of my grandfather, and how my father, his two siblings, and my grandmother managed to leave, one at a time, from that hate-torn country. I did not lie about my continuing interest in all things Jewish to my mother; I simply I neglected to tell her. As we had never been close and I never again lived at home, that was easy enough.

I found it difficult to comprehend why father insisted on silence as a condition for his mother to live with our family. As I learned more, I gradually understood. He had been raised without religion by his strongly atheist father who controlled the household. He grew up knowing nothing about Jewish traditions or religious practices and thought of himself as German. Then the new Nazi regime labeled him Jewish, an identity he felt no connection to. No wonder, he became hypersensitive to the potential dangers inherent in having Jewish blood.  Years later, he told me, “If it could happen in Germany, it can happen anywhere.”

Yet even today, I find I am disappointed in him and saddened by how his decision isolated my grandmother and almost robbed me of the rich stories from their past.

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Creating a Book Cover that Works.

Marketing a book is probably one of the most difficult, complex, and challenging things a self-publishing author must tackle. An important component of the marketing effort is the book cover.

As readers browse shelves or scroll on the web, a book has only a few seconds to catch their eye and make them reach for it or click on it. As an indie author, I want a cover I can love, but I also need to make sure it grabs the kind of reader who will love the story I have written.

A striking book cover, like a good movie poster, needs to grab attention. It should be appealing, have eye-catching visuals, use colors that evoke emotions, ignite curiosity, and hint at what to expect from the story within. Besides the images and their arrangement, the style of typography can help convey the tone of the book and the genre. For example, stark, more contemporary, non-serif lettering is suited to thrillers, while script and curlicues work well with romance. Add to this, the need for a cover design to work in various sizes, including the small thumbnail usually seen first on digital book listings. Obviously, there is a lot to consider.

Creating a book cover is always (for me) a creative and collaborative project. Luckily, I have a wonderful designer, Cole Waidley, to help me. (cw******@***il.com) Cole and I both have an art education, but his is much more recent, by more than fifty years! I depend on his specialized graphic skills and understanding of computer-driven art applications to make the work go smoothly.

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Before the actual design process begins, I send Cole a collection of files with information to inform and inspire him. For Ashes and Ruins, I sent him a brief book description, some photos (both my own and from stock photo collections), a selection of typical covers of published historical fiction novels, and a few ideas I envisioned. Cole took all my input, researched WWII and Blitz images available for free on stock photography sites, and created three “starter” designs. I was delighted to see that all of them featured my family photo of Edith (one of my story’s protagonists) embracing her husband.

Dozens of back-and-forth emails ensued. Mine usually began with “Can you add…?” “Can you change…?” or “Can you modify…?” or something of the like. Cole’s responses came back like clockwork—always with the requested suggestions beautifully implemented. Finally, we narrowed our choice to two:

1. A London scene with airplanes overhead and a romantic image in the clouds.

2. A collection of items from the story (the photo, a ration book, a stack of letters, a locket, and a bouquet of daisies) against a background of ruined, bombed-out buildings.

As my own publisher, I use a trusted circle of writers, friends, family, and my editor to gather initial input when I need fresh eyes on marketing issues. Their responses to the two covers were helpful, though their choice of a favorite was split right down the middle. Cole and I began another round of modifications based on my “team’s” feedback. As we worked, I got an additional idea. I asked Cole to create a cover that used the British and German flags as design elements. 

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He sent back a dynamic and visually impactful design. It hit all the marks except one. It did not convey the tone and content of Ashes and Ruins, a story of domestic and romantic life during wartime rather than a high-suspense war adventure. I wrote to Cole saying, “I may have to write a thriller so I can use this fabulous cover design!”

To add to the complexity, while waiting to see Cole’s next changes, I read an article on cover design. “Essential Elements of the Best Book Covers” published on The Write Practice website (thewritepractice.com), caught my attention. In the article, Vasylysa, who works with Miblart, a book cover design company, wrote, “The problem is that as the author, sometimes you’re focused on small story elements instead of the overall impression the cover gives your reader. Your cover needs to make a promise to the reader about what’s inside and what to expect without delving into details.” Her words really hit home. 

Worried that our design with the assortment of items in the middle was exactly what Vasylysa was talking about, I asked Cole to simplify it. However, because the first “busy and detailed” version had been a test favorite, I’m still considering it. Thus, I am still looking at three choices! Two are similar, one less cluttered with detail than the other. But I love all three. How can I decide? What to do?

Which cover would most make you reach for this book, linger to read the description and review excerpts on the back, and maybe tuck it into your shopping cart?

A. London scene w/planes B. Ruins w/ration book C. Ruins w/photo & letters

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Finding the Women’s Story Buried in Immigrant Soldier

A Mother and Daughter Relationship Revealed.

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I was compelled to write my first novel, Immigrant Soldier, because the true story of my uncle’s role in Patton’s Third Army grabbed me and would not let me go. Herman’s Jewish blood branded him in Nazi eyes, forced him to flee his homeland, and landed him in the U.S. Army where he was trained to interrogate German prisoners of war.

Though the story was gripping—a combination of a coming-of-age story, an immigrant tale, and a wartime adventure—I found that writing from the point of view of a young man was sometimes an out-of-body experience. As a woman in my late 70s, my experience of male emotions and attitudes came to me, at best, secondhand, from my father, various boyfriends, my husband, and my son. Writing about Herman’s days in the army was especially difficult because none of the men I knew well, except my son, served in the military, and he came back from Afghanistan and Iraq unwilling to talk about his experiences.

During the months I spent writing that first novel (ok, let’s be honest… the years!), the idea of writing a woman’s story always bubbled below the surface. The next book I wrote was indeed a story told by a woman, my own memoir, but thoughts of the women from Immigrant Soldier kept circling my mind. My grandmother Clara (Herman’s mother) and my aunt Edith (Herman’s sister) spoke to me, begging me to write about them.

I hesitated because I was unsure how to make their quieter story work as a novel. My two women relatives did nothing unusual in any big, heroic sense. They were not spies or resistance fighters, ambulance drivers, or code breakers. They did not suffer in concentration camps or hide in basements, sewers, or forests. Yet, I knew instinctively that they represented something important—women who waited, made do, worked hard, worried about their loved ones, and protected their children. They were the strength behind the heroes. I also have come to understand that in many small and quiet acts, Clara and Edith were heroes too.

One of the reader reviews for Immigrant Soldier carried, along with its kind words, a criticism of Herman’s mother. “I really didn’t like Clara,” the reviewer wrote, “because she stayed too long in Germany. Why didn’t she leave earlier?”

These words hurt in a visceral way and lingered in my mind. I wondered what I could do to help readers love Clara as much as I did. Perhaps if I explained more fully Clara’s situation and her reasons for lingering, readers could empathize with her choices. Like many other Jews who thought of Germany as their homeland, she had no idea that the slow increments of Nazi suppression and anti-Semitic legislation were leading to the horrors of Auschwitz and Treblinka. What we see now with clear hindsight was unimaginable to Clara in the 1930s.

Most of all, this story spoke to me as a mother blessed with a deep and strong relationship with my own daughter, a relationship that can (and has) weathered emotional ups and downs. Clara and Edith’s relationship, forged by their need to stand together, helped them endure amidst the turmoil of wartime. I would write of the losses and loves of a middle-aged woman, of her emotional depths, and of her mixed feelings as she watched her daughter journey from girlhood to a sexually awakened womanhood.

The evolving relationship between a mother and daughter, the incremental nature of anti-Semitic laws in Nazi Germany, and the quiet heroism of women on the home front would be my guiding themes. As the novel developed, I realized that PTSD and a woman’s right to choose, two issues with current significance, were also part of the story. These themes will, I hope, make Ashes and Ruins both universal and relevant to today’s readers.

This article originally appeared in my new Substack newsletter,

Wherever the Word Leads.

You can subscribe to the newsletter at https://kathrynslattery.substack.com/

or to my blog here on this website.

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Origins of a Novel

Inspiration

Every time I hold one of the silver spoons in my hand, I remember. My thumb strokes the simple design on the handle, the capital L and the flat, crossed ribbons. I admire the elegant shape of the spoon, and I remember. It is not even my memory. It is my grandmother’s. 

I grew up with these spoons, stirring my hot chocolate with them, eating from the matching forks, and cutting my meat with the knives. I grew up with the furniture too. The round dining table that opened into a larger oval that barely fit into our tiny dining alcove. In my parents’ room, the set of beds with inlaid headboards and footboards nestled side by side to form one large, eiderdown-covered expanse that filled the room. Nearby stood a majestic dressing set with three tall, beveled mirrors and two marble-topped bureaus. In our living room, near the front door, place of honor was taken by what we called “the clock table” because of the matching clock with its sweeping shape and the large white face that helped me learn to tell time.

There was art too. I was fascinated by the drawing of a monkey playing the violin which my father proudly asserted was by a famous artist. In a corner near the door to our minuscule bathroom, a bronze sculpture of Mercury stood on display with his bow and quiver, his winged feet, and his muscled chest. The china cabinet was tucked in another odd corner because it would fit nowhere else. Behind the curved glass doors, safe from curious fingers yet easy to see, were more treasures—an elegant vase painted with lavender hollyhocks, a silver filigreed basket, and a cunning porcelain snail with a fairy riding on its shell. In the cabinets below, folded table linens, monogrammed with Ls like those on the silverware, were stored to be brought out for holiday dinners. A box at the top of my mother’s closet held old-fashioned ladies’ underwear, crocheted babies’ shirts, and a fine tulle wedding veil edged in lace. 

These treasures, I was told, had traveled all the way from my father’s childhood home in Germany. How they had come to be in the two-bedroom beach cottage near the Pacific Ocean where I lived with my parents, my two sisters, and my grandmother was a mystery. The questions came later. Later still, when I was an adult, the truth of how these relics from a Jewish family had been spirited them away from Nazis who would have liked to keep them finally emerged.

Ashes and Ruins, a story of perseverance, courage, and strength during desperate times, grew from this family history.

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or follow my newsletter, Wherever the Word Leads. https://kathrynslattery.substack.com/

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A Personal Space

Wherever the Word Leads

· Do you love reading and books?

· Are you fascinated with WWII or the 1930s and 40s?

· Are you interested in the process of writing and publishing?

· Is travel your passion? Or reading about travel in your lounge chair?

· Do you like trying new recipes and eating exotic foods from around the world?

Yes, I know. This is a diverse list of interests and subjects for a single newsletter.

But that’s me. Katie Lang-Slattery: author, public speaker, Ritchie Boy and WWII-era specialist, traveler, cook, artist, gourmet and gourmand, book reader, friend, and mother. I like to think of myself as a Renaissance lady—a versatile, well-rounded person with various talents, areas of knowledge, and interests. My interests can carry me far afield, which is why this newsletter bears the title: Wherever the Word Leads, a nod to my travel memoir, Wherever the Road Leads.

If one or more of our interests coincide, please read my newsletter, and if you like what you read, please subscribe. It’s free!

https://kathrynslattery.substack.com

My plan is to post new material every week or so. I promise, no flooded inboxes!

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My subjects will be broad. They may seem unrelated, but in one way or another, they all connect back to my novels and my memoir. I’ll cover everything from little-known WWII facts to book reviews, from my latest travel adventures to recipes, and from the process of writing to the joys and frustrations of self-publishing, as well as occasional reprints from past blog entries on my website or random items that catch my attention. Fact, fiction, my personal thoughts . . . you will find it all here.

Full disclosure: There will be regular updates about the editing and publishing of my current project, Ashes and Ruins, a historical WWII novel. Of course, I hope you will want to read Ashes and Ruins when it is launched this winter! Until then, I offer my newsletters and active blogs, including the newsletter articles.

More to come! Thanks for your support.

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A Lifetime of Travel

In a previous blog I shared my collection of passports —a long line of documents that began when I was sixteen.   These booklets, with their photos that reveal my gradually aging face and random visa stamps in red, green, and blue, represent a lifetime of travel. I also have a large box of travel journals, some on loose stapled sheets, some in the form of letters written home, and others neatly penned in bound journals and sprinkled with sketches.  I treasure all these memory boosters.

Recently, I went through my collection and created a list of all the major travel experiences I have enjoyed in the last sixty plus years. The list includes all my travels that required a passport and a few significant stateside journeys.  I’ve already written at length about my 2001 trip with my sister, Una, to India. A few of my other adventures may appear in future blogs. Do any of them spark your interest? Which ones would you enjoy reading about?

My Personal Travel Time Line

Summer 1960 – Europe with parents and 7-year-old sister, Karen

1966/67 – Graduate studies at University of the Americas, Mexico City, (inc. car trips to Yucatan and  Acapulco)                              with  Ron L.

Summer 1968 – East coast U.S.A. and cross-country drive on my own in VW van

Summer 1970 – Cross country car trip with Tom

September 1971 to September 1973 – “The Big Trip” in VW van with Tom, featured in Wherever the Road Leads.

October & November 1974 – Japan, Hong Kong, Malaysia, Singapore, The Philippines, and Bali with Tom.

March/April 1981 – Singapore (to meet Tom), Hong Kong, 3-day tour to Guangzhou, and meeting my mom                                             and my  5-year-old daughter, Erin, in Hawaii.

October 1982 – Hong Kong cooking class and Hawaii, to meet my mom and Erin

Feb. & March 1985 – New Zealand with Tom, Erin (age 9) and son Ethan (18 months old).

December 1989/January 1990   – Denmark with my sister Una, for a family wedding

Summer 1990 – Family motorhome trip to East Coast, including picking up our 4th Danish au-pair in New York and bringing her home with us through North Dakota, etc.

April 1991 – Germany with my parents and Una to visit my father’s hometown.

Summer 1993 – Family trip to Hawaii

October 1994 – England to meet Erin, and continuing Denmark to visit my nephew Mike.

Summer 1998 – EuroPatrol. Leading teen Girl Scouts with three other adults, including Erin. Add to that a family  trip with Tom, Erin and Ethan to Denmark to visit friends and relatives.

Spring – 1999 – New York City with a girl-friend.

February 2000 – England with Erin to interview my aunt Edith.

January 2001 – Elder Hostel to India with Una, plus train trip on our own to Girl Guide World Center in Patna. (See  Return to India blogs)

April 2001 – Family trip to Hawaii

February 2002 – Girl Scout/Girl Guide trip to London with Erin, and a small group of leaders and one girl.

March 2002 – Elderhostel to China and Macau with Tom

February 2003 – Elderhostel train adventure in Australia with Tom

March 2004 – Chile with travel companion.

Summer 2004 – EuroPatrol. Leading teen Girl Scouts around Europe with Erin and another leader.

April 2006 – Chile with a travel companion.

September 2008 – Big Island, Hawaii with a girl-friend.

April 2009 – New York city with a girl-friend.

June & July 2010 – Northern Italy with a friend, Switzerland on my own, then join a Girl Scout patrol for a week                        and on to Denmark to visit my nephew Mike

April and May 2012 – Paris, the Dordogne, and Barcelona with a travel companion.

September 2014 – Home-exchange in Provence, France and road trip from Barcelona to Madrid with a travel                               companion.

April 2016 – Home-exchange in Brittany, France, and Road Scholar trip to Normandy and Brittany with a girl-                             friend.

April 2017 – Viet Nam with my daughter, Erin.

October 2017 – Milan, Venice, and House exchange in Paris with Ron (new partner, sculptor and illustrator of the Caitlin series of early-reader books.)

May 2018 – Sailing in Antiqua with Ron.

Summer 2019 — Car trip with Ron to Colorado and the Pacific Northwest to participate in art shows and visit my son Ethan.

 *     *     *     *     *

In a few days I will be setting off on my first international trip since 2019. Two weeks in Belize—snorkeling, sailing, and swimming with my family. This is the first time I have planned an adventure that includes my adult children (my son Ethan, his wife Eva, and my daughter Erin). I will journal and sketch and take pictures….. and share this adventure with you when I return.  Probably no new blogs posts until the New Year!

What journeys from your past stand out? After Covid, are you ready to travel again? And if so, beyond visiting family (which we all want to do), where do you want to go?

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Balanced Memoirs of the Un-famous

Celebrity memoirs frequently appear on best seller lists, but what of the memoirs of the unfamous?  If your name is well-known in the arts or politics, publishers will clamor for anything you might write.  But, when a regular person with an interesting story writes a memoir, one of the first dilemmas they encounter is how to stand out in the market.  What makes readers pick up the memoir of an unknown person, love it, and recommend it to a friend?

I  usually prefer memoirs by ordinary people. One thing that makes a memoir like that resonate for me is the balance between the personal story and the special knowledge or experience the author shares. Below are a few of the more interesting memoirs I have read written by non-celebrities.   

 

In Sickness and In Health,  by Karen Propp, 2002.  This memoir is a love story about managing marriage during the illness of a partner. An extremely open and heartfelt writer, Propp shares the emotional rollercoaster of falling in love with a man recently diagnosed with prostate cancer. She deals with everything from raising a toddler during her husband’s treatments to her personal feelings and doubts.  She also shares the the intimate efforts they try to resurrect their sex life.  There is much to be learned about sustaining a marriage in this memoir, with or without the added issue of illness.

 

Come on Shore and We Will Kill and Eat You All, by Christina Thompson, 2008.  This informative and insightful book balances memoir with historical and travel non-fiction. Thompson seamlessly blends her personal love story with the history of the colonization of New Zealand.  She touches on multiple layers of understanding—everything from the attraction of the exotic, issues of marriage to someone of a different culture, her own New England background, the history of interaction between English colonists and the Maori culture, and the development of cultural stereotypes.

 

 

Paris Letters, by Janice MacLeod, 2014.  The author shares her journey from busy ad executive in L.A. to strolling artist in Paris.  Along the way she falls in love, gets married, and moves permanently to France.  Told with humor and honesty and illustrated with lovely watercolors by the author, Paris Letters offers an intimate look at how to simplify a fast-track life to allow for a year abroad. MacLeod concludes with fun tips for saving or making $100 a day—a trick she used to set aside money for her year of travel. Her suggestions could be of value to anyone who wants save for a big expenditure.

 

The Year of Living Danishly, by Helen Russell, 2015.  Russell, a British journalist, writes about the year she and her husband lived as expats in Denmark.  An unusual blend of narrative non-fiction and a laugh-out-loud, humorous memoir. Each chapter chronicles one month and deals with a different aspect of Danish life and culture told with the thoroughness of a professional journalist.

 

 

 

Alone Time, by Stephanie Rosenbloom, 2018.  The author shares helpful tips, tools, and insights for solo travel balanced with delightful travel stories of Paris, Istanbul, Florence, and New York. A perfect book for anyone who would like to travel more, with or without a companion.

 

From Scratch,  by Tembi Locke,  2019.    Many distinct aspects make this memoir interesting. A black-American actress, Tembi falls in love with a Sicilian chef during her study year in Florence.  She shares her deepest feelings about love, motherhood, working through her grief when her young husband dies of cancer, and getting to know her Sicilian mother-in-law in the small rural setting where her beloved grew up.  Food and cooking connect the two women. Besides descriptions of simple meals, country cooking, and cheesemaking, Tembi also offers her readers the gift of special family recipes.

 

When the Red Gates Opened, A Memoir of China’s Reawakening, by Dori Jones Yang, 2020. This excellent memoir combines a personal love story with a journalist’s view of events in China in the 1980s. Stretching from the early days of China’s open-door policy to the Tiananmen Square crackdown, this book is perfect for any Sinophile. Yang lived through it all, wrote about it for BusinessWeek, all while falling in love and starting a family.  Her love for China is obvious and forms the core of the story.

 

 

Baggage, Confessions of a Globe-Trotting Hypochondriac, Jeremy Leon Hance, 2021.  This memoir shares the ups and downs of living with mental illness. It offers an interesting balance of nature travel and exotic locations with the author’s struggle with OCD, hypochondria, anxiety, depression, and a family history of mental illness.

 

A well-balanced memoir is like spending a long weekend talking with a friend or mentor. And it is this quality that can lift the memories of an ordinary person to an extraordinary level.  I hope you will find my memoir, Wherever the Road Leads, an interesting balance of travel adventures and the ups and downs of a new marriage.

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