A.H. Kim's Blog, page 5

THE ISOLATION JOURNALS - DAY FIVE

Today’s prompt:

Find a good spot in front of your favorite window. What do you see? Write about the view—this can be a description of what’s unfolding right now, or you can branch off into a fictional reality. Maybe the window is open and sounds, smells, and a breeze are slipping in; maybe there are people in the street, maybe it’s empty. Either way, record the moment.

Forbidden Fruit

My neighbor has a lemon tree. I can see it from my window. I’m pretty sure it’s a Meyer.

I’d never heard of Meyer lemons until I moved to Berkeley for law school. It was love at first encounter. The rich golden color of the peel. The heady Bergamot-like perfume. The delicate balance of sweet and sour, so different from the mouth-puckering lemons of my former life.

A botanically naïve east coaster, I remember being thrilled and even a little disbelieving that people had these incredible treasures just growing in their yards. (Cue: Buddy the Elf finding “free candy” on the streets of New York.)

Most people seem to take their lemons for granted, leaving them hanging heavy on the branch, full of delicious promise, until they fall in a muffled thud and self-compost back into the earth. (I know this could be interpreted as a metaphor for life, or Western civilization, or the shitstorm we’re going through right now, but it’s not. I’m just talking about lemons.)

As a poor grad student who loved to cook and eat, I was sorely tempted to trespass into strangers’ yards to help myself to some forbidden fruit. Think about what I could make: lemon curd bars, glazed lemon pound cake, lemon meringue pie, roasted chicken with lemon and garlic. Ever the diligent rule-follower, though, I resisted.

Today, as I gaze forlornly out my rain-streaked window, entering week 4 of god knows how many more weeks of self-quarantine, I think about all the rules we have to follow. Stay inside. Wear a mask. Keep six feet distance. Don’t touch your face. Wash your hands for 30 seconds. Don’t hoard TP. Don’t hoard anything.

I’m tired of rules. I’m tired of the rain. I’m tired of my apartment. I’m tired of checking the TP aisle and seeing it completely empty. (Two-package limit? I wish!) I’m tired of singing that stupid happy birthday song.

Andrew Zimmern has a recipe for creamy lemon pasta in Food & Wine that I’ve been dying to try. It calls for Meyer lemon zest, juice, and supremes. I’m thinking I’ll need two lemons, maybe three, to make it right. I look out the window again at my neighbor’s laden tree. The rain is finally letting up.

I pull on my rain slicker and boots and head outside. Meyer lemons were $2.99 a pound at Safeway the last time I checked. And I haven’t seen Ivy in nearly two weeks.

(Seriously, you thought I was going to trespass onto my neighbor’s property and steal his lemons? For a lousy bowl of pasta? C’mon people: follow the rules.)

THE ISOLATION JOURNALS - DAY FOUR

Today’s prompt:

As a human being on Planet Earth I’ve experienced my fair share of awkwardness. (Maybe more than most). I have learned to love these moments for in discomfort, valuable epiphanies are often found. Also, in retrospect, they can generate great laughter. Ah, the Glorious Awkwardness!

Reflect on a particular moment in your past when you felt most in touch with your “Glorious Awkwardness.” It could be a cringe-worthy moment you’ve replayed a thousand times in your mind. Or something essential about who you are, something unchangeable. Go back there.

What did you learn from it? Can you laugh about it? And if not, why?

Love is All Around

I stood there on Market Street waiting for the light to change. I’d just gotten my hair cut, and I was feeling unusually sassy. Mary Tyler Moore in the opening credits throwing her hat up in the air sassy.

When the walk sign flashed, I crossed the street, sassily leaping over the treacherous trolley tracks. I could practically hear the 70’s theme song playing in the background:

Who can turn the world on with her smile?

Who can take a nothing day, and suddenly make it all seem worthwhile?

Well it's you girl, and you should know it

With each glance and every little movement you show it

As I reached the opposite side of the street, I joyfully jumped to the curb just like Mary would have done.

Crack.

It registered in my brain milliseconds before it registered in my body. I was about to go down. And it wasn’t gonna be pretty.

Crash.

I lay there on Market Street waiting for the pain to hit. I had just fallen on my ass, and I was feeling my usual stupid self. Rhoda Morgenstern in the opening credits throwing her hat up in the air and having it plummet to the ground like a lifeless squirrel stupid.

“Are you OK?” someone asked.

I looked up and saw Greg Wise. And I don’t mean Greg Wise, the super-handsome fiftyish actor who played the dashing royal Lord Mountbatten in The Queen and also won the celebrity version of The Great British Bakeoff. No, I mean Greg Wise, the super-hot thirtyish actor who played the dashing cad John Willoughby in Sense and Sensibility and also ended up marrying Emma Thompson in real life. (Suck it, Kate Winslet!)

Greg Wise…or the San Francisco hipster version of him…extended his hand to me just as John Willoughby extended his hand to the injured Marianne Dashwood in the movie. I reached up gratefully, and Greg Wise’s eyes twinkled as he said, “This hurts your ego more than it hurts anything else, am I right?”

Wait, what?

I quickly withdrew my hand and experienced one of those flashback sequences straight out of Minority Report. Looking super-cute in my 1980s parachute pants and holding a tray of bland college cafeteria food before going down splat on my ass. Looking va-va-voom Marilyn Monroe in my vintage red-satin dress and descending the steps of the Hasty Pudding Club before going down splat on my ass. Looking like Mary Poppins crossed with the Virgin Mary as I cradled my first-born savior in the Baby Bjorn before going down splat on my ass.

In the moments of impact, I always felt awkward. Self-conscious. A klutzy, graceless loser. And in the years that followed, I relived those moments over and over in my brain. The blooper reel from hell.

But as I grew into maturity, I quieted those voices. Convinced myself that no one really cared. That most people didn’t notice. That most people were so self-involved that they didn’t even register my humiliation.

Then along comes frickin’ Greg Wise and his twinkling eyes.

“Are you OK?” Greg repeated, his hand still extended.

I looked down at my ankle, which was already beginning to swell. It would be dark blue and purple tomorrow if I didn’t ice it soon. I drew myself straight and mustered up the courage to look into Greg’s eyes, which weren’t so twinkly after all. And I was surprised by what I saw reflected in them.

Damn, my hair looked really good.

THE ISOLATION JOURNALS - DAY THREE

Today’s prompt:

Write a travel journal entry from your home, could be your living room, could be your bed. Write as though you've just arrived in a new place (because, in many ways, you have) and what you're observing about the place and how you feel in it. Write what you see, hear, and touch, as though it's all brand new. What are you learning about yourself in this different land, with all its deprivations? If you'd like to turn this into a visual entry, draw a map complete with notes about this foreign land's customs, rituals, and routines.

Welcome to the Hotel San Francisco

Dear Diary,

Well, it’s my third week at the Hotel San Francisco, and it’s everything I hoped it would be. The bed is dreamy soft, pure white sheets and fluffy down comforter. The bath has all my favorite products: spicy ginger-scented shampoo, that yummy banana conditioner that leaves my hair so soft and shiny, even the artisanal small-batch perfume I picked up that one time at the Paris airport. Can you believe it? I mean, what are the chances?

Every morning, I’m treated to chai tea and the most amazing chef-curated breakfasts. The first day, it was made-to-order omelets. The second, cinnamon-spice coffeecake. It’s a different taste sensation every day. I don’t mind that I need to cook it myself. It’s like that time we went to Tuscany and learned to make our own pasta from that feisty old nonna. It’s part of the whole “San Francisco foodie” scene, am I right?

Did I mention that this place is super-exclusive? In my time here, I’ve run into only one other guest: a reclusive twenty-something who comes out of his bedroom around noon and grabs a bit of whatever I cooked that morning. I think he might be an indie rocker or reality star or something. He claims to be “a college student trying to avoid his crazy-ass mother,” but I’m not fooled for one minute. Paparazzi alert! Us Weekly, you’re welcome.

But I’ve saved the best for last. There’s this guy – the innkeeper and handyman and custodial staff and dishwasher all rolled into one – who I keep running into all the time. He’s got that “cranky but sweet and borderline pathological” quality to him, tall and lanky , short salt and pepper hair. Very Hugh Laurie as House (the early seasons). Whenever I leave my mug on the hardwood coffee table, or forget to check the toaster when it’s burning, or leave my underthings scattered on the floor (oops!), he’s always around, picking up after me. There’s a frisson that can’t be denied.

Some Yelpers have been scathing in their reviews of the Hotel San Francisco. They say the place is past its prime. The food is mediocre. The innkeeper is a jerk. I don’t know what they’re talking about. To me, the Hotel San Francisco is pure bliss.

Five stars.

THE ISOLATION JOURNALS - DAY TWO

Today’s prompt:

Put yourself in a moment where you were not fine. Maybe you were terrible, and maybe you were TOO GOOD TO BE TRUE. Put yourself back in that moment when you lied. Why did you do it? Whose feelings were you trying to save? Write what you wish you would have said, and imagine where that honest conversation could have led you.

THE CASHIER

“How you doin’ today?” she asked. The name on her badge said Ivy.

Ivy smiled at me as she picked up the package of Pampers and passed it over the scanner.

“Great, thanks,” I said, smiling back.

Ivy continued smiling as her gaze drifted down to the baby nestled on my chest, sound asleep in his carrier. And then Ivy and I both turned our attention to the box of Dreft detergent making its way down the black rubber conveyer belt.

What I really wanted to say is: “I’m lonely.”

What I really wanted to say is: “I wake up every morning and kiss my husband good-bye as he heads off to work. And then I have a moment of panic because, for the next ten or twelve hours, it’s just me and my baby, home alone.”

What I really wanted to say is: “I know I should be grateful to have a healthy baby, and truly I am, but sometimes, I would give my last penny for someone to just sit with me and engage in five minutes of honest conversation.”

What I really wanted to say is: “I don’t know how it happens, but sometimes, the entire day goes by in a blur. I’m still in my pajamas. I haven’t showered. I haven’t brushed my teeth. Twelve hours have passed, and I’m exhausted, and I don’t know why.”

What I really wanted to say is: “I need human interaction. I need it like an addict needs a fix. The highlight of my day is coming here to Safeway and exchanging just two words with you, my favorite cashier, Ivy.”

What I really wanted to say is: “Life is short. Tell me your truth, and I’ll tell you mine.”

But I never did. I never said those words.

I think about those memories as I stand in a line ten-people deep with my half-gallon of organic milk and four-pack of Ultra-soft Charmin. I think about those memories as I watch you patiently explain to the exhausted young mother that her WIC benefits can’t be used to pay for for Tide detergent or Clorox wipes. I think about those memories as the man in front of me absent-mindedly wipes his nose before handing you his ATM card. I think about those memories as you smile when you see me approach.

“How you doin’ today?” I ask.

THE ISOLATION JOURNALS - DAY ONE

Writers always talk about how they’ve kept journals since they were young. That’s not me. Sure, I’ve tried journaling from time to time, but I always found myself re-reading my words, cringing, and ripping out the pages.

But times change. I’ve changed. This month, I’ve decided to participate in The Isolation Journals, a 30-day creativity project to help make sense of these challenging times. Each day, the project’s creator, Suleika Jaouad, will offer a writing prompt, and each day, people like me and Elizabeth Gilbert and Erin Khar and Esme Weijun Wang will write something in response.

I’ve never done anything like this before. I hope you’ll join me on this journey!

Today’s prompt:
Write a letter to a stranger—someone imaginary, someone you met once, someone you only know from a distance. Tell them any and everything: when you first noticed them and what has happened since, how you’d like your day to start and to end, or what’s been on your mind. Or tell them a story about a time when something difficult led you to an unexpected, interesting, maybe even wondrous place. You may be stuck inside four walls, but there are no boundaries. Say whatever you want to say, whatever you think they need to hear.

Dear Bus Driver:

I’ve been riding the 31BX Balboa B-Express for exactly 23 years. I know because I was three months pregnant when I first moved to San Francisco, and my son will turn 23 in September. Of the many SF Muni drivers I’ve had in all that time, you were the kindest. I’m sorry I never told you so.

You probably don’t know, but I’m sort of a bus celebrity. To this day, strangers will stop me on the streets of San Francisco and exclaim, “I know you from the 31BX!” Those strangers always seem so excited, like they’re telling me something new, but in truth, I’ve heard it a lot. I’m used to being bus-famous.

Countless strangers saw me on the 31BX through the early stages of my adult life:

as a young professional woman with a growing baby belly

as a first-time mother in a suit and pantyhose carrying an infant in her Baby Bjorn

as a harried mother juggling her briefcase, toddler, and Ziplock bag of Cheerios

as an even more harried mother juggling all the above plus a growing baby belly

as a bone-weary mother in a spit-up stained suit holding a preschooler with one hand and bottle-feeding an infant with the other.

Those same strangers saw me – or kindly pretended not to see me – when I got on the 31BX completely bald from chemotherapy, having dropped off my older son at second grade and holding a Ziplock bag of Cheerios for my 3-year-old.

Those same strangers saw me – or kindly pretended not to see me – when I struggled to climb the bus steps, my joints aching from cancer treatment. I remember one bus driver – runner-up to you in the kindness department – who would lower the steps every time he saw me, the way one would do for a senior citizen. Never mind that I was only 39 years old.

I was in my office a couple years ago when I learned my brother died by suicide. I was so overcome by the news, it didn’t even occur to me to take a cab. As if on autopilot, I walked down the street to catch the 31BX home. Just as I reached the bus stop, the driver closed the door. I raised my hand in hopes that he would have mercy on me, but he avoided my eyes and drove away. Some drivers take pleasure in their power, no matter how petty.

Recently one morning, I overslept and was running late. When I saw the 31BX whizzing past me headed downtown, I didn’t bother to raise my hand. Another bus would be coming in 10 or 15 minutes. There was no need for me to beg for mercy.

But you waited. I was stranded at the street corner, the light having turned red. The gulf between us was immeasurable. You waited and kept the rest of the 31BX riders sitting in their seats. You saw me in your sideview mirror, desperate for the light to change, and you waited.

I’m embarrassed to say that wasn’t the last time I overslept and saw your bus whizzing by me. Each time you waited, I thanked you, and you gallantly tipped your head.

The last time I saw you, you said, “Tomorrow’s my last day on this route.” You said it like it meant something. Like you were saying goodbye.

I meant to bring you something on your last day. A card. A cookie. Something to show you how much you meant to me. But I overslept and missed you.

I haven’t ridden the bus for three weeks now. Occasionally, I’ll go outside for a walk, to get some fresh air while I’m sheltering in place. Whenever I hear the familiar whirr of a Muni bus passing by, I glance up to look for you.

I hope you’re keeping safe.

SURREAL LIFE

Living in San Francisco, I’m used to being on the leading edge of change. That’s one of the things I love most about my adopted hometown. Gay marriage. Electric cars. Artisanal toast. What starts out here as unthinkable or laughable or radical eventually becomes acceptable or trendy or even mainstream in due course.

But I was caught off-guard when, almost two weeks ago, San Francisco and neighboring counties ordered nearly 7 million residents to shelter in place. Meaning, don’t go to the office. Or the gym. Or any restaurants or bars. For a city that revels in its foodie culture, that last one really hurt.

Friends and family from across the country called or texted to check in on me.

Are you OK? (Yes, absolutely.)

Is it a ghost town? (I’m not sure because I hardly ever leave the house, but the couple of times I went shopping at the market or for a walk in Golden Gate Park, there seemed to be a lot of people — most trying to keep their 6 feet of social distance.)

Will you get arrested if you go outside? (No, although SF Police announced today that might change.)

As with artisanal toast, San Francisco proved to be a harbinger of things to come. According to today’s New York Times, at least 229 million people in at least 26 states, 66 counties, 14 cities and one territory have been urged to stay at home. My friends and family no longer check on me like I’m some exotic specimen because now they’re living la vida loca themselves.

Against this backdrop, it’s hard to feel excited about my book that’s still more than three months from publication. Who knows what the world will look like by July 14? Will the shelter-in-place restrictions be lifted? Even if they are, will people feel like going out in public, convening in stores, attending book readings? Or will everything have changed irrevocably?

This week, I received a note from my editor that gave me a spark of hope. The HarperCollins audio producer wanted my input on potential narrators for the audiobook. My audiobook. I clicked the link and saw headshots and bios for over a dozen actresses, all beautiful and talented and with extensive lists of film, television, and audiobook titles to their credit. I was blown away.

This morning, I sat in front of my computer and listened to each actress reading my words aloud — an experience I can only describe as surreal. Life has been feeling surreal these past two weeks. But this morning, it felt surreal in a good way.

P.S. That photo? Completely staged. I was wearing my bathrobe and glasses this morning. Of course!

DEBUTANTES HAVING A BALL

My fellow 2020 Debutantes (L-R): Christi Clancy, Jayci Lee, Suzanne Park, Jennifer Chow, Natalie Jenner, me, Kerry Kletter

Last August, when I had lunch with Miracle Creek author Angie Kim (see Aug. 26, 2019 blog entry), she gave me lots of great advice, but perhaps the most helpful was to join the private Facebook group for 2020 debut authors.

Initially, I was more of a lurker than a participant, giving the occasional thumbs up to someone posting about a cover reveal or seeking an opinion on an author photo. As my friends and family know, I’ve always been the careful one, standing on the sidelines until I’m sure I understand all the rules before I jump into the game. (And I never actually jump into the game…more like tiptoe in reluctantly and pray the ball doesn’t come my way.)

In the past seven months, though, the 2020 Debuts Facebook group has become my virtual friend group. We cheer one another during the good times, which have been many. I’ve watched my fellow debutantes get nominated for the PEN/Faulkner Award, named to the NY Times and Washington Post “Best of” lists, and reviewed enthusiastically on NPR. They’ve also had successful book launch events, been featured on TV and radio, and received “starred reviews” on Kirkus and Publishers Weekly.

But more importantly, we support one another during the bad times — the one-star ratings on Goodreads; the last-minute changes to the book’s title or cover or release date; the sheer terror of knowing the book you’ve nurtured for years will be released to an uncaring world tomorrow; the bone-tired feeling of juggling day job, writing, book promotion, and sick babies.

This week, I had the great pleasure of meeting several of my fellow 2020 Debuts in person. We gathered for drinks and nibbles at The Upper West, a fun and festive restaurant in Santa Monica. Although most of us had never met in person before, we greeted each other like old friends. (And then made sure to sanitize our hands with Purell — coronavirus, you know.) We exchanged bookmarks and business cards and even an ARC or two, but mostly, we exchanged support and enthusiasm. We promised to attend one another’s book events in our hometowns. And we enjoyed spending time with other people who “get” how crazy this debut author experience can be. (Not asking for sympathy — it’s a genuine honor and privilege.)

To find out more about the 2020 Debuts, go to our Website or follow us on Instagram. While you’re at it, check out my author interview, which provides details on my writing process and what I’m working on now.

WORDS WITH AUTHOR FRIENDS: LYDIA KANG

One of the quotes I repeat most often is, “If you want something done, ask a busy person.” In my previous post about Jayci Lee, I hypothesized that there is something in kimchi (that quintessential Korean food) that promotes overachievement. Well, no one proves that theory better than my next author friend, Lydia Kang.

I first became acquainted with Lydia when my sister sent me a signed copy of Lydia’s debut, a young adult novel titled Control. At the time, I had written my own YA novel and was struggling to find an agent who’d represent me. I quickly turned to the back flap of the book to find out more about Lydia, as if the secret to publication success lay within her author bio. That’s when I learned that, in addition to being a debut author, Lydia was also a practicing physician and mother of three. That information somehow made Lydia both more impressive (doctor, mother, and published author???) and relatable (OK, if she can do it with all that she’s got on her plate, maybe I can too).

Fast forward a few years. I’ve written my second book — which would become A GOOD FAMILY — and my agent has sent it out to publishers. Miracle of miracles: I have two offers. I have no idea which one to pick. That’s when I reach out to Lydia, who calmly walks me through the pros and cons of each, like a really good therapist crossed with a fairy godmother.

I finally got a chance to meet Lydia in person this past month when I was visiting my sister in Omaha. Lydia is just as smart and sympathetic in person as she is on the phone. And modest! Since her debut, Lydia has quietly published six more books (with another on the way — see below) and contributed to two anthologies, racked up a bunch of “best of” awards, and mentored countless medical and writing students. And as her followers on Instagram know, Lydia is also a talented artist, incredible baker and cook, hobbyist naturalist and gardener, and devoted mom to human and canine lifeforms.

Readers, I’d like to introduce you to Lydia Kang, the ultimate overachiever.

Name: Lydia Kang

Book title: Opium and Absinthe

Favorite book(s): Jane Eyre. I've probably read it fifty times. 

Favorite local bookstore: The Bookworm Omaha (AH note: Agreed! It’s where I bought both books pictured above. And how funny that our outfits match the books we’re holding — totally unplanned! I only noticed it as I was posting the picture.)

Favorite (or notable) quote: (At the moment, this is my favorite! It's the epigraph in my upcoming book, Opium and Absinthe.) “I want you to believe...to believe in things that you cannot.” -Bram Stoker

Where and when do you write: When I'm not in my doctor's office, so about half my week. I write from home, with doggies always nearby. 

Favorite thing to do when you’re not writing: Eating. Baking Bread. Eating bread. Playing with puppies. (I have a new puppy, does it show? His name is Sawyer. He's a Yorkipoo rescue. He is a lap snuggler and is the hungriest dog I've ever met.) Hanging out with my family. Wearing yoga pants 24 hours a day. Cooking. Eating my cooking. Watching movies that center on eating and food. 

How did you get your agent: After writing my third young adult novel, Control. I racked up a few hundred rejections before that finally happened. My agent is Eric Myers, of Myers Literary Management and he's been my agent for nearly ten years now.

How did you get your first book offer: It was unusually fast. After I signed with Eric, we had the manuscript proofread and cleaned up, and sent it on submission. We received a pre-empt offer from Penguin Random House (back then, it was just Penguin). The offering editor was Kathy Dawson, who now has an eponymous imprint and is an award winning editor. So we said yes! 

What advice would you give an aspiring author: Wow, so much advice. First, have respect for what you're intending to write. If you want to be a young adult author but don't read the genre and think "writing for teens is easy", your cockiness will show.

Second, which is part of the first: read a lot. Learn from books you love.

Third, be humble about knowing that you will likely have a lot to learn, and be open to feedback and improving your craft.

Fourth, learn about the publishing industry so you can temper your expectations. It's good to dream big, but it's also good not to quit your day job expecting you'll be as rich as Stephen King after writing your first book.

Fifth, understand that your path to publication may be very different from other people's. It may take you a month to write a book, or five years. You may want a literary agent and a Big Five publisher, or you may want complete control of the process and self publish it. Snobbishness abounds regarding genre, and publishers, and indie publishing and self-publishing. Do it the way that suits you. 

What surprised you the most as a new author: That my career as an author was not a slam-dunk from here on out. You have to prove yourself with every book, and I still received rejections on books and pitches after I was an established author.

What are you working on next: I am working on my next book with Lake Union. It takes place in New York City during World War II and involves the Brooklyn Navy Yard, the Manhattan Project, and a mystery lady.

What are you reading now: Sigh. I am reading online articles about puppies and Yorkipoos all the time. Sorry, I'm in puppy-mommy mode!

In the movie version of your life, who would you want to play you: Awkwafina, if she was twenty years older!

Any final thoughts: Wear sunscreen and get your flu shot. Sorry, it's the doctor in me. Hehe.

LET'S GET REAL

My older son recently got his first full-time job, and he called to ask about which health plan he should join. It was in that moment that I realized he was an adult. Health benefits = real adult.

I just got back from a week of travel to find a large white envelope in the pile of mail. The return address was MacMillan Publishers — which is not my publishing company. Hmmm, very curious.

Inside the envelope was an Advance Reader Copy (ARC) of A SWEET MESS, a contemporary romance by Jayci Lee, whom I met on the #2020Debuts Facebook group. Like me and Angie Kim (featured in my August 26, 2019 post), Jayci Lee is also a Korean-American lawyer-turned-writer. (In addition to its other benefits, there must be something in kimchi that promotes overachievement.) To add to the coincidences, Jayci and I share the same publication date: July 14, 2020.

I was thrilled to get the ARC, not only because I’ve recently become a fan of contemporary romance — curse you, Jasmine Guillory! (coincidentally, another lawyer-turned-writer) — but also because it feels like validation that I am an author. Receiving ARC = real author.

So, thank you to MacMillan Publishers and Jayci Lee for giving this first-time author a welcome boost to her imposter syndrome-riddled ego. As you can see from the photo above, I couldn’t wait to dig right in.

(I was tempted to crop the photo to zoom in on the book cover, but I couldn’t resist showing off the Totoro stuffed figures on the bookshelf.)

SIMPLE GIFTS

I began this blog to share the highs and lows of being a debut author, but with the year-end onslaught of work deadlines and holiday shopping (not to mention a flu that had me in bed for several days), I’ve been remiss in sharing one of the all-time highs: getting my box of Advance Reader Copies (ARCs). While the book won’t be released until July 14, 2020, a lucky 23 of my dear family and early reader friends are now holding a copy of A GOOD FAMILY in their hands — the most precious and personal Christmas present I’ve ever given. In case you haven’t noticed, links to pre-order your very own copy are now on my home page.

To watch a video of me opening the box of ARCs, check out my Instagram or Facebook site — and while you’re at it, please follow me so you can keep up with my book events, which I hope will be scheduled in the coming months. Unfortunately, Instagram decided to crop out my head and focus on the book, which is probably for the best anyway.

In addition to the wonderful cover blurb from award-winning journalist and New York Times best-selling author Lisa Ling, I’m thrilled to say the back of the ARC also features two new blurbs from two very talented authors. Due to space constraints, only a tiny bit of their blurbs could be printed on the ARC, but thankfully, blogs don’t have the same limitations. My sincere gratitude to Lisa, Angie and Meghan for the best gift possible: their kind words of support.

From Angie Kim, Author of the National Bestseller Miracle Creek:

A.H. Kim’s A GOOD FAMILY is an intriguing blend of a heartbreaking story of family loyalty with a cautionary tale of corporate excess and suburban greed. Kim follows two women who couldn’t be more different from each other—Beth, a beautiful Big Pharma executive at the center of a whistleblower scandal, and Hannah, her modest and quiet sister-in-law who has sacrificed everything for her brother—but who must work together to keep the family from falling apart when Beth is sent to prison. Filled with sharp insights about the dynamics of uber-privileged communities and stark glimpses into prison life, this smart debut will keep readers turning the pages until its surprising conclusion. 

From Meghan Maclean Weir, Acclaimed Author of The Book of Essie:

A Good Family is a searing and heartfelt debut. In it, A.H. Kim traces the glittering vein of lies and willful misunderstandings woven through each branch of the Lindstrom family tree. So accustomed are the Lindstroms to their privilege, not even the prospect of sending one of their own to prison can dim their picture-perfect smiles or slow the flow of perfectly chilled champagne. To Hannah, an outsider related to the others only by her brother’s marriage to Beth, this excess seems both disconcerting and obscene, yet she finds it alluring all the same. When Beth is incarcerated, Hannah must keep the house of cards upon which the family’s success balances from toppling, and together they must face the inevitable reckoning that follows.