Carol Newman Cronin's Blog, page 30

Sailing Prequel: Circumnavigating Brenton Island

Writing about sailing. Even when we don’t so desperately need an escape from the world, does it get any better?

I’ve written both fact and fiction that revolve around sailing, but my latest short story, Sail Your Worries Away, might just be my favorite so far—and now it’s available, in full, to blog subscribers. But first, here’s how it came to be.

First draft

Early on in the writing of what would become Ferry to Cooperation Island (launching next week, here’s how to pre-order!), I wrote two sailing scenes that I thought would move the story forward. I don’t remember the original spark, but putting characters on boats always helps me get to know them. (Maybe I just needed an escape from the world that day, too.)

Early in the revision process, though, I realized one of the scenes was a useless darling that needed to be edited out. Sometime after that, I realized the second also needed to go. The result was a much stronger book—my best yet. But I kept thinking about those two sailing scenes; how could I share them with others in need of a sailing escape?

Rewrite to prequel

It wasn’t until a few months ago that I realized: woven together, those two scenes could form a very nice sailor-focused prequel. Defined as “a story or movie containing events that precede those of an existing work,” prequels are a bookend to that much more common term, “sequel.” (I’m working on that, but you’ll have to be patient.)

After a bit (okay, a lot) of editing and tweaking, it’s now my favorite short story. It takes place a month before the novel begins, on a surprisingly warm April day that’s perfect for the first sail of the season. It also provides a sailing tour of Brenton Island, because the most obvious afternoon/evening sail out of Brenton Harbor is a clockwise circumnavigation. And though it contains no spoilers, it does provide a nice insight into two of the characters that show up in Ferry to Cooperation Island (here’s how to pre-order!). 

The cover photo

Editing finished, I went in search of a cover photo—and stumbled onto a pertinent piece of family history. My father took this photo; his father is steering. The boat is a Pearson Vanguard that arrived the same day I was born; my mother, seated to leeward, likes to say that “both were grossly overdue.” (Duffy, the family dog, only smiled when not heeling.)

Though the boat in Sail Your Worries Away is a Triton (the Vanguard’s little sister), the view from the aft end of the cockpit would’ve been quite similar. Best of all, the photo captures that fresh-ocean-air escape that is always the best reward for leaving the mooring.

Sail Your Worries Away

I’ve serialized Sail Your Worries Away into three parts on my Facebook author page, but as a special thanks to blog subscribers here’s a link to the full story (password: SailAway2020). Thanks so much for reading, and I look forward to your comments.

PS: Only one week until the Ferry launch party… and if you enjoy my blogs, you’ll love FERRY! Pre-orders definitely increase visibility, so thanks for helping me promote this fourth book.

PPS: If you prefer a writer’s prequel, read No Muse Is an Island (password: NOMUSE2020)

What Inspired this Novel?

With only six weeks until Ferry to Cooperation Island launches into the world, I’ve set aside my interviewer hat and become the interviewee. Out of practice and more accustomed to asking questions than coming up with pithy answers, I recently found myself struggling with a predictable one: What inspired me to write Ferry to Cooperation Island?

After an awkward moment, the interviewer kindly revised the question: “Is there a single word that describes it?” That was easy: it’s the longest one in the title.

If we believe the news, there’s less and less Cooperation every day. And yet I still see neighbors helping neighbors, and hear about strangers doing good deeds without any expectation of reward. Fear and drama sell, so most of the “nice” stories remain off-camera—though even two mules can figure out that pulling together works better than pulling apart.

Rewarded for good behavior

When I first started writing this book a decade ago, all I had to work with was a strong desire to make a tiny dent in the world’s negativity and a curmudgeonly ferry captain talking inside my head. What if my captain was rewarded for learning to work with others? I wondered. Maybe fictional Cooperation could inspire a change in our real world too.

Bad things do happen to good people on my imaginary island; it’s not a utopia, because “real” people live there. But there’s a basic understanding, brought on by the insulation/isolation of living on a rock surrounded by water, that we all need each other. That others will help us when we’re struggling, especially if we are brave enough to ask.

Cooperation is better than conflict

We can’t all live in a place where people value Cooperation so highly, it’s become their island’s nickname. But we can remember that our world is a better place than the steady stream of dramas might make us think. Still not a great soundbite, but at least I now have the answer to one question I’ll surely be asked again.

Ferry to Cooperation Island will be available June 16, and though plans for an in-person launch party have been upended by the Coronavirus, pre-orders will still arrive on or around that day (maybe even earlier). Read Chapter One

Got a thought to share? Leave a comment below, or send me an email . I read every (human) remark. Thanks for reading!

Driftwood: Challenge ON

A few days ago, just after dawn, I paddled out across the harbor with an unusually specific destination in mind. On the previous morning, I’d spotted a fresh piece of driftwood almost as long as my standup paddleboard—12 feet 6 inches—and decided to retrieve it. There was no way to tell where it had come from, but I figured the next storm might well wash it right back out into the Bay. It would be a hard-to-spot boating obstacle, so to help the community, I’d remove it.

Okay, okay, here’s the real reason; after so many weeks away from competitive sailing, I was also desperately hungry for a boating challenge.

The paddle out was quite easy, because the predicted southerly gale hadn’t yet arrived. But by the time I wrestled the branch—not heavy, but the very definition of awkward—onto the board, there were puffs circling around me—and a bit of chop building up. Even so, the first part of the paddle back to the dock was straight downwind. I even had time for a bit of daydreaming, imagining where in the garden this spiky new addition would fit best—before I turned to cross the harbor and realized the strengthening wind was blowing me sideways. I couldn’t possibly paddle hard enough or long enough to get back to where I’d started. 

My mind instantly shifted from “isn’t this a fun adventure” to “this is stupid.” If things really went pear-shaped I could ditch the log, but that would mean the driftwood had won—and it would also reintroduce a significant boating obstacle back into a navigable waterway. The better solution would be to readjust my cargo, which would hopefully reduce the drag of the longest branch enough that I could make it back to the beach.

Fortunately, there was a boat in the harbor to serve as a rest stop, and I grabbed onto its transom long enough to turn over the log. Still awkward, but less branch in the water now—and the drag was on the windward side of the board, so it would steer me upwind. When I started paddling again, my speed had climbed and I was holding my own against the breeze’s push to leeward; still a lot slower than my usual average, but once again a safe adventure rather than an accident waiting to happen. Ten minutes later, I made it back to shore—out of breath, and grinning. 

Why did winning a battle with a piece of driftwood make me so happy? Because it challenged me both mentally and physically—like any good sailboat race. And while I didn’t get to rehash the details with anyone who’d battled the same challenges, I did enjoy sharing it with Paul when I got back to the house. I also earned a very useful trophy; our garden now has a new border, replacing a rotting piece of driftwood picked up on a similar dawn raid a few years ago. 

#stayinghome makes clear that the challenging unpredictability of regattas is simply impossible to replicate. To prepare, we have to make sure both boat and body are in top form, as well as getting everything to the regatta. On the day, we study the weather and try to match it to our fastest equipment. On the water, we build up and then burn off that competitive fire while trying to properly prioritize among all the specific skills of racing sailboats. And finally, back onshore, we get to relive the day’s challenges with others who share the same passion.

With all of that not an option right now, I feel very lucky that I can occasionally turn a morning paddle into a challenge I can “win”… even if my competition was just an awkward and not particularly smart piece of driftwood. And even if paddling it home didn’t really help anything, besides my own mental health.

Got a challenge to share? Tell me about it in the comments below, or send me an email. I read every human comment, with thanks.

Author Conversation #4: Alice C. Early

I first heard about Alice Early as part of a casual conversation with my (then) brand-new agent: “I’ve got another client who lives on Martha’s Vineyard,” April told me. “She’s cool. I’ll e-introduce you.”

Soon after that, I found myself on a phone call with Alice—and two authors who’d never met (and who both hate talking on the phone) chatted for an hour and a half. By the end of that first conversation last June, we’d become friends—and agreed to trade manuscripts; with her book scheduled for publication two months earlier than mine, she was deep into final edits.

(Of course, we were both blissfully unaware of how much the world would have changed by April, 2020.)

Just because you like the person doesn’t mean you enjoy her books, even if they are #coastalfiction… but The Moon Always Rising (Alice’s debut novel) turned out to be as intriguing as the woman herself. I made a few suggestions and she took them well. She also helped out with a few key suggestions about Ferry to Cooperation Island—a truly symbiotic relationship.

Alice’s brand-new first novel is almost as good as a real-life Caribbean escape.

The Moon Always Rising came out officially two days ago and is now available wherever books are sold—so even though we can only celebrate virtually, you can finally see what I’ve been raving about. Here’s a taste of what inspired the story, and a glimpse into the author herself. Welcome Alice!

What first sparked The Moon Always Rising?

The very first idea for what eventually became The Moon Always Rising (let’s call her
MOON for short) came from a story my husband Larry told me over 20 years ago about
an Anguillan conch fisherman everyone called “Ivor the Diver.” By the time I visited
Anguilla with Larry, Ivor was long gone, but his shack still stood at the north
tip of Sandy Ground beach next to a pile of conch shells higher than its roof. In
2017, Hurricane Irma swept away the slumping remains of the house and most of
the conch pile.

Ruminations about Ivor and the perils he faced diving alone
for conch were the roots of my character Finney, the Anguillan fisherman who
marries a woman from Nevis and gives up his island homeland for hers. Finney
and my protagonist Eleanor “Els” Gordon are both in self-imposed exile; the
friendship they develop is central to making Nevis her home.

People often ask about how I got the notion of having a
ghost/jumbie haunt Els’s home in MOON. That story is more personal. When I
moved in with Larry (a widower), his hand-built home contained many artifacts
of his late wife, whom I’d never met. We’ve since made that home very much
“ours,” but in the beginning I was surrounded by enough possessions,
letters, artwork, even clothing she’d left behind that her “presence”
was palpable. Mining that experience helped me create Els, who buys the
abandoned Nevis plantation house left intact by the previous owner, Jack
Griggs, a suspected suicide. The possessions Jack leaves behind help Els both
to unravel Jack’s mysteries and to understand Nevis.

Why did you choose Nevis as the main
setting?

Annually
since 1996, Larry and I have spent part of the winter on Nevis: since 2004
we’ve divided our Caribbean sojourns between Nevis and Anguilla. From our first
visit, I became captivated by the rich history and culture of Nevis. Foodie
that I am, a dive into local cuisine followed soon thereafter. Back then, the
grocery stores were few and intermittently stocked, so I visited the farmers’
market and small shops and learned from the vendors about traditional foods and
how to cook them as well as the plants used in bush medicine. All this time the
stunning beauty of Nevis and the diversity of her people were working their
spells. I filled a yellow pad every year with notes, impressions, sketches and
mini-scenes. Years later all that went into the pot that became the first draft
of MOON. The novel couldn’t have been set anywhere else.

Who’s your favorite character?

Jack
Griggs and his jumbie, no question. Jack is partly an amalgam of long-dead or
disappeared men I’ve known on the Vineyard or Nevis, but most of him is pure
make-believe. Though I studied Caribbean folklore and superstition about ghosts
and jumbies, I didn’t want to be restricted by them. Jack’s my ghost, I figured, and I could write
him any way that suited my story. I made him a rapscallion, a womanizing
drunkard with a learned, yearning, passionate and sort of pathetic underbelly. I
wanted him to be believable and I needed him to be a catalyst to Els’s forward
motion. He wheedles, he charms, he rants, he pouts, but he’s also spot-on about
her denial and fears and at his most annoying to Els when he forces her to
confront herself.

Which character was the easiest to write?

Jack
again. But also Giulietta, Els’s estranged mother. My own mother died
while I was writing MOON. She was in no way similar to the narcissistic
Giulietta, but mother-daughter bonds and the importance of a mother’s love was
ever-present in my mind at the time. Once I realized that Els’s problems stem
from both being abandoned by her mother at the age of two and from the family’s
refusal ever to speak about that mother or allow any contact, Giulietta’s
motivations took wing. She harbors a secret that could destroy any chance at a
relationship with Els.  I wanted her to
be artistic and a drama queen, self-consumed and spiteful, but desperate for
forgiveness. I’m sure I’ll return to mother-daughter relationships in future
works because they are so fraught and fascinating, universal and excruciatingly
specific.

Why do islands and the coast “speak” to you?

I’m sort of an island woman. Now I live on Martha’s Vineyard. Before that, I lived on Manhattan. I’ve rarely lived beyond cycling distance of salt water. I love the grace and awkwardness of small town life, which is only exacerbated by the boundaries of an island. Something in me finds being so encircled comforting. I’m experienced enough in the sea’s moods and furies to know that’s not always a safe thing, but the presence, the constant movement, the pull of moon on tides is part of my blood stream, I guess.

What’s most exciting about seeing this book in print?

Besides EVERYTHING? I think it’s finally having the story in readers’ hands that excites me most, instead of just rattling around in my own brain. Once I realized I was writing a novel (versus making private notes), the whole point had to be about sharing. To put myself and my work out there. That was and is terrifying, but may be the most affirming thing I’ve ever done. I’m finding reader reactions fascinating, whether they like my work or not. They see things I didn’t intend (or did I, unconsciously?). They give me issues to ponder. They teach me about my characters and my storytelling. It’s a rich conversation, kind of addicting.

Thanks Alice, and here’s to MOON!

Read chapter one and link to online buying options on Alice’s website

Read previous author conversations

A Tiny Giant in Sailing World

Back in December, I went to Nassau to write about sailors who were racing the Star Sailors League Finals for the first time. The resulting story, Tiny Giant Among Giants, showed up in my mailbox a few months later, spread across the pages of Sailing World’s Spring 2020 issue.

Photo courtesy Star Sailors League

The “giant” of the title is Brazilian Henrique Haddad. When I first saw him and his crew at the 2019 Snipe Worlds (which they won), I assumed the nickname “Gigante” belonged to the other (much taller) guy. Instead, it’s another example of Brazilian sarcasm. Henrique is about my height, perfect 470 skipper size.

I began the interview thinking the regatta was his very first time in a Star boat—a great story line that (because it wasn’t true) I had to let go. Even so, he was a pleasure to interview; one of the nicest and most humble 30-somethings I’ve ever met. When we spoke, he was still hoping to qualify for #Tokyo2020; thanks to the Olympic postponement, now he’s got another year to try for what would be his second Olympics.

If one of the best things in the world is “having written,” another is seeing that writing laid out around eye-catching photos in a (paper) magazine. Even the nicest-looking websites or “Issus” don’t compare. So do me a favor, and pick up a copy of the Spring 2020 issue of Sailing World—or better yet, subscribe. Four issues a year, and a great way to support some of our sport’s best writers and photographers.

For international readers, Sailing World has graciously permitted me to share a PDF of the story. Let me know what you think in the comments below, or send me an email. I read every human comment, thanks!

Read my take on the 2019 Star Sailors League Finals

Good News: We Adapt

Today’s post was supposed to be entitled “What Inspired this Novel?” because one of the reasons I write a weekly blog is to work through my own worries. Two months before a book launch, pre-publication interviews would normally be at the tippy-top of that worry list. “What made you write this book?” is one of the most predictable questions, so blogging my way to an answer—and then reading your wise comments—was supposed to help me prepare.

These, of course, are not normal times.

New world, new questions

Surprisingly, those interviews have already started. And the most predictable question (at least last week) was about about my memory of September 12, 2001: the day I drove from Rhode Island to Annapolis, towing a small keelboat. Crossing the George Washington Bridge, after one of the easiest tows ever through western Connecticut, I glanced south—and spotted the still-smoking Twin Towers.

All I could do was keep driving. So I did.

Comfort in the past

Why do interviewers in 2020 care about that nineteen year old memory? Right now, it’s hard to see a way back to even a new normal—just like right after 9/11, the last time the world shifted on its axis. In the immediate aftermath, those of us who could still cling to some sense of normalcy did so. Over time, we all learned to adjust to changes both little and big: to take off our shoes through security, to ignore the cameras that quickly popped up in all our public spaces, to go on after losing a loved one. We adapted.

Today, I find comfort rather than fear in neighbors wearing masks and gloves. I no longer interact closely with anyone except Paul, or make spur-of-the-moment trips to the grocery store. We’ve already adapted, and we’ll continue to do so.

More adaptations

In the publishing world, authors celebrating book-birthdays aren’t able to meet readers in person—so other authors have stepped in to offer support. For those of you on Facebook, I encourage you to follow A Mighty Blaze, a platform launched only a few weeks ago, which has already become a key player in spreading the word about brand-new books. Every Tuesday (did you know, books are only published on Tuesdays?), this group of volunteers shares links and interviews to bring readers and writers together. We adapt.

In the world of competitive sailing, regattas have either been postponed (like the Olympics), or cancelled altogether. Yet sailors lucky enough to still have water access are trying out model boats, while SnipeToday and Sail Newport (and others, I’m sure) organize e-regattas. Suddenly, famous sailors have time for a leisurely chat with a journalist, and we get to listen in. Who knows where all of this will lead?

Brought to you by the word Cooperation

On a selfish note, I’m so glad that Ferry to Cooperation Island is an “evergreen” novel. No matter what the world looks like by mid-June, its central theme will still hold true: cooperation is better than conflict. (This section’s headline was the tongue-in-cheek subtitle for that “What Inspired this Novel?” post. Sesame Street fans will get it.)

Maybe I’ll publish that post in a few weeks… but right now, sharing a reminder about our ability to adapt seems more helpful and hopeful. Stay (or get) well, my friends! We’ll get through this.

Got any life adaptations to share in writing/reading or sailing? Add them to the comments below, or send me an email. I read every human remark, with gratitude.

AP over 2020: Lessons from a Postponed Olympics

Last week, the 2020 Olympics became (unofficially) 2020ne. Officially, #Tokyo2020 will keep its name, despite Opening Ceremonies now rescheduled for July 23, 2021. It is the right decision, and I fully expect it will be a promised bright light at the end of this long worldwide tunnel… but my heart goes out to everyone who’s had to put dreams on hold for an extra year.

Watch my interview on ABC6 News about the Olympic postponement

When the world shut down, 470 sailors were only days away from starting their 2020 Worlds—for US teams, the final Olympic Trials event. Instead of sailing the regatta they’d been laser-focusing on for years, teams packed up and headed home.

Going into a final Trials event, you have no idea what your life will look like after it’s over. Continue to train toward an even bigger challenge, the biggest regatta of your life—or return to “normal” life? Now athletes have to live on that knife-edge of uncertainty for months longer than expected, without access to the most dependable energy outlet of all: training.

So what can those of us watching from home learn from these Olympic hopefuls, as we deal with similar uncertainties about the days and months to come? Here are four lessons from sailing in a shifty breeze, along with my heartfelt best wishes to everyone—especially those of you whose Olympic dreams are now postponed.

1. “Keep your bow pointing toward the mark.” What really matters? (For me it’s family, writing, and time on the water, not necessarily in that order.) Focus on that, rather than the white noise of the news cycle.

2. “Control what you can, and let go of what you can’t.” We have no say in the weather or the wind or the virus, but we can control our own reactions to each. So heed the warnings, stay home, and help stop the spread—even though it means sacrificing social interaction, sailing, and so many other things we used to consider as an essential and no-brainer part of every day.

3. “Make your own luck.” Change means opportunity. What can you build out of this? What have you been thinking of trying? It’s the perfect time to experiment!

4. “Win the regatta, not the race.” Don’t get caught up in petty squabbles; be patient with each other, strive to cooperate rather than compete (at least until we can all get back out on the race course again), and take the long view. What will still seem important six or twelve months from now? Focus on that, and try not to let all the other details consume too much energy.

Just like a sailboat race, I like to think that the better we perform now, the shorter this sail-less phase will be. Stay safe (and #stayhome), all. Can’t wait to cross tacks and jibes again with you, once we make it past this.

On Sale Now

As a very small attempt to help entertain you all until we can go sailing again, Game of Sails: an Olympic Love Story ebooks are now on sale for 99 cents! As one reviewer put it, “Game of Sails will have you sniffing for salt air and rooting for the underdog.” And isn’t that exactly what we all long to do right now? (Over the next week, the price will gradually climb back up to $3.99, so download yours ASAP.)

Feel free to add your own tips in the comments below, or send me an email. Thanks for reading!

How to #Stayhome and Stay Married

Last week, so many friends said “I don’t know how you and Paul both work at home” that it started me wondering about something I usually take for granted: how do we manage to still have something new to say to each other over dinner? Then I heard that the divorce rate is expected to spike after we’re through this, and that made me realize how different it must be to spend “normal” weekdays away from home, with people other than my life partner. So in a small attempt to help you all adjust to your new normal, here are 5 lessons I’ve learned over the past two decades—in approximate order of importance (to me).

Note to self: These also can be applied to living on a boat.

1. Give each other space

Most homes are set up to maximize shared space, but everyone will need alone time—and not just while working. You don’t have to take all your coffee breaks and lunches together. Think about how much time you’re used to spending alone (hello, commuters) and look for ways to build that same personal reboot into each day—even if privacy just means the luxury of losing yourself in a book without interruption.

2. Set up a schedule

I have a pretty set routine: write in the mornings; meetings and editing in the afternoons. What works best for you? Write it down, and then try to stick to it.

3. Hydrate well and sit up straight

When the writing is going well, I often forget to take regular breaks from my desk—a challenge that is aided by staying well hydrated. I also break up the workday by standing up for some tasks. I’ve tried sitting on a swiss ball, but I get too antsy and soon regress back to my kneeling chair. Put some thought into your overall setup (chair, desk height, keyboard location) because good posture is critical to long-term health. Here’s one excellent summary, which reminds us that “you can’t counteract the effects of sitting by visiting the gym at the end of the day” (especially right now).

4. Give yourself (and your partner) a break

This whole cultural shift is emotionally challenging, so even if you don’t get as much done as planned, don’t be too hard on yourself. It’s a marathon, not a sprint, and conscious kindness (to both yourself and your loved ones) will be the winning move in the long run.

5. Take control of your own joy

The more disrupted our lives feel, the more important it is to have a little fun every day. For me that comes from getting outside, eating well, and sharing a laugh or three with Paul at the end of a productive day. All of our usual social outlets are off-limits, but we can still find joy in small daily habits.

Be well, all, and thanks for your #socialdistancing. Just like a sailboat race; the better we do it, the less time it will last.

Got another tip that’s helping you #stayhome while also staying both married and sane? Share it in the comments below, or send me an email . Thanks for reading!

Thank Your Teammate Day

Today, Kim and I are supposed to be rigging up the Snipe for a pre-regatta practice day on Biscayne Bay. But like everything else, the 54th DonQ Rum Keg Regatta (a three day championship that usually brings teams from around the Snipe world to Miami) has fallen victim to COVID-19.

Blocking waves, adjusting all those controls: Thanks Kim! (Thanks also to Matias Capizzano for this photo from the 2015 Snipe Worlds.)

We’re disappointed, of course, because even after such a warm winter we’re still hungry to go sailing and hang out with our Snipe friends. So in the spirit of doing what we can, I’m designating today, March 19, as Thank Your Teammate Day. Regatta reports are the traditional place to express appreciation, but this year we won’t have that option. So wherever you are, please join me in a public shout-out to our crews who work so hard while demanding so little: THANK YOU!

Thankless job

I spent the first decade of my Snipe career in the front of the boat, so I understand what a hard and thankless job it is. (As skippers, we can fix the second part of that.) Crewing in most boats is more physically challenging than steering; hiking hurts when you can’t feel what’s going on through the tiller, and there are more lines to pull.

Crewing can be emotionally challenging as well. Making great suggestions that are either not heard or not implemented effectively gets old. And no matter how well a crew sails every race, it is usually the skipper’s mistakes that make or break results.

It’s impossible to compete at the top end of the fleet with a teammate who’s just along for the ride. In the doublehanded Snipe, it’s impossible to compete at all without a willing teammate. And yet in the heat of the moment, many of us blame our crews (sometimes in voices that can be heard across the race course) for our own failures. Jibes are a perfect example; a bad one is almost always the skipper’s fault, even if our own mistake (turning too fast or too slow, not catching a wave) makes it look like the pole retracted or launched at the wrong time.

A show of respect

I’ve written before about Listening to Your Teammates, and how our egos often interfere with taking input from the front of the boat. Listening can be harder than speaking, but it’s actually the best way to show respect—even better than a sincere “THANK YOU.”

Of course a single expression—or even a single day—of thanks will quickly be regarded as lip service unless it is followed up with other forms of appreciation. But until we can all go back to acknowledging our forward teammates by name in regatta reports and buying the after-sailing drinks, Thank Your Teammate Day will have to do.

Setting an example

So I’m going to get the party started by telling you how grateful I am to have Kim Couranz as my forward teammate. For the past decade, regatta after regatta, Kim has trimmed and eased all those Snipe lines while taking countless waves in the face—and (mostly) laughing with me rather than at me. Thanks, Supercrew! I hope we get to go sailing together again soon…

The Coronavirus might keep us from doing what we love, but it can’t stop us from expressing our gratitude to the people who make it possible.

Have you thanked your crew today?

Photo courtesy Matias Capizzano. For more of his fantastic photos from the 2019 Snipe Worlds, visit his Snipe Worlds 2019 Gallery.

Book Review: Witches’ Dance

Even though this debut novel is a literary fantasy rather than #coastalfiction, I had to review it—if only for the luxury of thinking more deeply about it. (Also I’m guessing this one will be easy to miss, partly due to its genre-busting and partly because that apostrophe in the title doesn’t search well, so I want to do my small part in giving it some much-deserved publicity.)

The title comes from the name of the fifth violin concerto by Niccolò Paganini, a virtuoso and composer from the early 1800s who is considered one of the developers of modern violin technique. In the book’s “prelude,” author Erin Eileen Almond draws us right into her world—while breaking several novel-writing rules. She begins by addressing the reader directly (“Paganini,” the first line reads. “What do you think when you hear that name?”) In the space of one paragraph, she crams in the historical highlights of Paganini’s biography, while simultaneously entrancing the reader by identifying what we “twenty-first century readers” might or might not already know. And then, so deftly I didn’t even notice at first, she suggests that we “become” her main character—quite a unique form of introduction:

“Say, instead, that you are Phillip Manns, a twenty-three year old savant about to solo with the Boston Symphony Orchestra…. In that case, the year must be 1984. And although your given name is Phillip Manns, you must believe, despite how crazy it sounds, that you are Niccolò Paganini, or at least his reincarnation.” 

Fantastical narrators

Only a few paragraphs in, and we already “know” more about the main character than simple words could ever convey—including the “fact” that he is not completely trustworthy. A few pages later, she expands on this fantastical aspect; “In this story, the dead do not remain dead, for if one may be reincarnated, why not another?” Mad fantasy, perhaps—but also the building-blocks of a page-turning story. 

One eye-catching member of Phillip’s audience at this 1984 performance is Hilda Greer, the seven year old girl who (we somehow already know) will become the other main character, when the first chapter opens in 1992. Now a teenager, Hilda has never forgotten Manns’ statement that night that “I am Paganini”—and even before she becomes his best violin student, she believes him. The “dance” that these two embark on starts at the Cambridge Conservatory in Massachusetts, diverts to a few dive bars (where Hilda plays violin in a rock band) and an Italian piazza, and eventually lands us on another concert stage at the 1993 Paganini Competition. That such a music event has been going strong since 1954 is just one of the many things I learned along the way.

Serious themes

This story tackles many dark topics: parental child abuse, alcoholism, mental illness, delusion. But it doesn’t preach or judge; instead, these negatives are seen as the unfortunate flip side of creativity and passion. Hilda’s mother Claire drinks too much and chases men, trying to drown the sorrows of a pregnancy-abandoned career as a ballerina, but she’s also quite self-aware and obviously trying her imperfect damnedest to do what’s best for her daughter and that amazing talent. Although early on I dreaded her mistakes, by the end of the book she’d become one of my favorite characters. 

Lyrical language

My favorite paragraph had nothing to do with music, but it shows the reader a great deal about Claire and her regrets:

“…none of them had realized what they were getting into by marrying so young. The wrong kind of marriage, Claire knew now, was an ending. Your life stopped, and you entered a kind of stasis where all you could be was what you already were. The best kind of marriage—she imagined, she fantasized before every first date—would be a beginning, a gateway to a new life where you continued to grow, where you never stopped becoming.”

Music-infused

Woven through every paragraph is the violin music of Paganini and Vivaldi and Beethoven, as we follow Hilda’s inevitable progress toward her coming-of-age as both a violinist and a woman. Though I wasn’t specifically familiar with Witches’ Dance, listening to it as I write this review it feels somehow both familiar and completely fresh; both classical and modern. It is the perfect signature piece for an unstable savant who thinks he’s actually its composer, and also the perfect accompaniment for a dark book with a surprisingly happy (yet satisfying) ending. 

Author Erin Almond deftly weaves fiction with fact to create this story. My only small quibbles are with a few point-of-view shifts later in the book that aren’t as clear as they might be, and a climactic scene that isn’t analyzed afterward quite as much as I thought it should be considering the changes it brought. Neither interfered with my deeming this book one of the best I’ve read in a long time—even though it is definitely NOT #coastalfiction!

Recommended to

Obviously this novel will resonate most deeply with musicians, but I recommend it to any passionate creative (as long as they can stomach literary fantasy). Just make sure to tell your local bookseller where the apostrophe should go in the title. Congratulations to Erin Almond for a fantastically deft debut, and I can’t wait to read what she produces next.