Carol Newman Cronin's Blog, page 37

Oops! January SUP Swim

I have a confession to make; I’ve already logged my first swim of 2019. It was NOT intentional, though it was somewhat predictable.

Here’s the biggest conundrum of standup paddling in winter: shallow water is safest, because if you lose your balance and fall off, you’ll be able to stand up. However, the most common reason for falling off (at least when paddling along a rock-lined shoreline) is hitting an unexpected boulder with the skeg—and that only happens in shallow water.

Even when paddling in warmer water, I ALWAYS wear my board leash. Photo: PaulCroninStudios

After six years of paddling the southern shoreline of Dutch Harbor, I’ve already hit most of those rocks. But last week I paddled north instead, to avoid a flock of shotgun-toting duck hunters. (Even in the dampness of hindsight, it still seems like the safer choice.)

So there I was, happily making just under four knots about fifty yards off the beach, when suddenly a seaweed-covered rock appeared right below the surface. I back-paddled as hard as I could, but the skeg still hit with enough force to throw me to my knees—and that far forward, the board is too narrow to stay onboard. I slid off, into what turned out to be waist-deep water—and, already gasping with the shock, stood up. (See conundrum, part one.)

I always wear my board leash, so less than thirty seconds later I’d pulled the board alongside and climbed back onto it. Now came the test, though. Would my dripping clothing—chosen for its sweat-free paddling comfort in 39 degree air—still keep me warm after a dunking? (I’d like to tell you the exact water temperature, but the NOAA web page is currently furloughed.)

Twenty minutes later, I stepped off the board still happy and warm—though definitely damper than usual, especially from the waist down. My biggest concern was why one foot was soggy, while the other remained quite dry.

If I hadn’t been exerting enough to raise my body temperature, I’m sure I would’ve chilled down fast. And if I hadn’t been wearing clothing that was designed to insulate even when wet and still be stretchy enough to move in, even layered up for January, this story might’ve had a completely different ending.

Hat and buff keep head and ears and neck warm. A Zhik spray top fends off windchill—and the Zhik life jacket will keep my head afloat, even if I fall into deeper water.

In November 2014 I wrote Winter SUP: Dress for Success. Since then, I’ve upgraded even more of my winter paddling gear to Zhik. A ten year old gray hydrophobic fleece top is still my go-to base layer; this winter I doubled that by adding their new improved black quarter-zip, which is almost twice as thick as the original and more water repellant (but still quite breathable). Over that I add some sort of wind block layer, depending on air temperature. For bottoms, I double up Orspan pants with an ancient pair of Deckbeater shorts for extra insulation.

As frostbiters know all too well, toes and fingers are the hardest thing to keep warm. Santa recently delivered some Showerpass waterproof socks, which I wear inside ancient neoprene boots; they are much, much more comfortable (and easier to put on) than the Rocky Gore-Tex socks I used to wear. That’s why I was so curious about why only my left foot was sopping wet; it was the first time I’d really tested the top seals. Clearly I did a better job of layering on the right leg.

I have no idea what brand these gloves are, but their flip-back magnetized mittens quickly transfer from finger-access to warmth.

Gloves? Well those pink beauties aren’t exactly new or technologically advanced, but their mitten-flaps kept my wet fingers frost-free.

Water-worthy clothing isn’t a luxury this time of year; it’s a safety necessity. Thanks to Zhik and a few other companies, I can paddle all winter and stay warm. What I said in November of 2014 still rings true: “Unlike frostbite sailing, SUP is surprisingly dry—assuming I pick my days carefully and stay on the board. Winter is not the time to start paddling, but it’s a great time to keep paddling.” 

Book Review: Suspicion

Suspicion came out in the last year of the last century; it’s Barbara Rogan’s sixth novel. After reading two of her other books, Rowing in Eden (1996) and A Dangerous Fiction (2013), I figured it would be another well-written romp—which proved correct. It’s also a nostalgia-free reminder of how the world worked back in the late 1900s, when only a self-selected few carried “portable” phones and when email was tethered to landline phone service. Across the wide divide of Now vs. Then, I can still call up the audio memory—and associated impatience—of dial-up modems. So this novel is a time capsule—not of a simpler world, but of a less connected one.

Emma, a writer of ghost stories, is midway through a first draft of her next book when her family moves from New York City to a house on Long Island Sound—which the locals claim is haunted. (There are too many references to the marketing potential of reframing this personal choice as a publicity stunt, but perhaps a 20th century reader wouldn’t have made that leap so quickly. And besides, what publishing team could resist harping on such a perfect angle to help sell an author’s next book?)

One reason I enjoyed Suspicion enough to review it is that Rogan (who now teaches writing online) is so eloquent about the process of fiction-writing. Emma, considering her eleven year old son’s soccer prowess, makes this analogy:

It’s all about choices, his work and hers. Every time the ball comes near Zack, he’s faced with a series of decisions. Writing’s the same. What seems like a continuous story line is actually a myriad of discrete points, each a potential turning point. A story is the sum of its author’s choices, its parameters defined by the paths not taken. Completed, a story appears to follow its own inexorable trajectory, but that seeming inevitability is not real; it is art’s illusion.”

What’s underneath the writing here (and all through the book) is how caught up Emma gets in her fictional world; watching her son play a Saturday soccer match, she’s daydreaming about how his work compares to her own. Her inability to stay “in the moment” eventually leads to a ghostly confrontation that turns out quite differently than expected. As a reader, I enjoy trying to predict a story’s ending—and then learning I’m completely wrong. Throughout this book, Rogan plants plenty of red herrings—especially in what’s left conspicuously unsaid—but all seem like such a logical possibility that they pleasantly distract rather than annoy.

Another reason I enjoyed this book was its careful editing, which provides another leap back to Then—this time, in the publishing world. I did spot a couple of easy-to-miss punctuational typos toward the end (missing periods and close-quotes) but the lyrically crafted sentences and carefully polished prose more than made up for those tiny imperfections.

All through the book, there was one major and consistent distraction I wish that editor had fixed; multiple “head-jumps,” where the point of view suddenly shifted without warning. Most of the book was written from Emma’s perspective, but to build tension we also saw the world through her husband’s and son’s eyes. Though each time I figured out what had happened after only a sentence or two, I always had to go back and re-read what was really a transition, in order to relocate myself. Those issues might keep even such an enjoyable book from being published today.

I’d recommend this book for readers who like pounding-heart mystery mixed into a normal but forgotten world. It’s also an example of an enjoyable midlist book published before the traditional industry contracted; fortunately, they are still out there for us all to discover.

Though also a bit of a time capsule, Barbara Rogan’s website is crowded with tiny insights about her process. Here’s a quote about the idea that originally sparked Suspicion: “With this thought came that little shiver down the spine that marks the conception of a fertile idea, the kind that, if watered and tended daily for a year or two, might grow into a book.” And it did!

Thanks for reading. I publish about one review a month and I’m always looking for the next book. Have you read anything you’d recommend? If so, add a comment below explaining why (no spoilers, please) or send me an email. Thanks!

Previous book reviews

How To Make Meetings Fun

Yesterday, I attended a three hour meeting that was so much fun, I was still giggling like a kid when I got home at the end of the day. But when I tried to describe why it had been so enjoyable, I couldn’t remember a single punchline. “We just kept laughing,” I told Paul, vaguely. “This one woman, she could be a stand-up comedian…”

Whether it’s a gathering of volunteers or paid employees, meetings are a necessity for most of us. Making them as fun as childhood play may not seem like an obvious business priority, but I would argue that shared laughter is the best motivator. How would you rather spend your time; sitting through a droning lecture dominated by one person, or sharing a few jokes along the way to getting something done? I prefer the second option.

Today, searching my happy memories of yesterday once again for a comedic example to share with you, nothing specific comes to mind. It was humor of the moment, a series of one-liners (often begun by the stand-up, then built upon by the rest of us). To me that’s the absolute funniest kind, but it doesn’t work out of context. So instead of trying to make you laugh, I’ll instead share a few lessons learned about how to make meetings fun.

1. Don’t take yourself too seriously. What’s the worst thing that would happen if this particular meeting didn’t happen at all? (If you’re having trouble coming up with an answer, maybe you shouldn’t have scheduled it.)

2. Respect the opinions of others. If you aren’t genuinely interested in what the rest of the group has to say, stay at your desk and watch cat videos.

3. Start on time, and end on time. If you need to run a few minutes over, ask permission (and make it clear that “no” is an acceptable answer). Also, only do this ONCE.

4. If the discussion wanders off-topic, corral it back gently. Leaderless meetings are no fun at all.

5. Limit the group to one conversation. Too many competing voices and it becomes a cocktail party, not a meeting.

While these lessons apply to anyone, they are especially important for the leader. That’s why, even though it could’ve been the phase of the moon or something in the coffee that made us laugh so much yesterday, I’m willing to bet that our next three hour meeting will be fun too. A well-led discussion where everyone feels respected often leads to laughter—even without a stand-up comedian seated at the table.

Publishing Contract, Signed!

I have some big news. A few weeks before Christmas, without wrapping or fanfare, I received the best present ever: a signed publishing contract. Yes, it’s official: in the spring of 2020, Ferry to Cooperation Island will be available in a bookstore near you!

Signing a publishing contract ticks a huge goal off my to-do list—and even more importantly, it is a major step toward getting this next book out of my brain and into your hands at last. The actual process, though, was a complete anti-climax. Densely printed contract pages were emailed back and forth to clarify a few mind-numbing details. “What does this paragraph even mean?” I asked April. “No idea,” she responded, adding, “Let’s just take it out.” Finally, signatures were added and a paper copy duly filed away in a drawer—where, unless something goes belly-up, it will remain. “Now comes the fun part!” she promised.

Three years ago, I dusted off a story idea from 2010 about an imaginary island and its ferry captain. Two years ago, I thought I had completed a first draft. (I was wrong.) One year ago, I pared down the manuscript from 129,000 to 89,000 words and shared it with a few readers—for which I now apologize.

Looking back, I can only conclude that the three months I’d spent searching for an agent had sucked away my perspective along with part of my soul. But how else would I have learned what kind of publishing teammate I really needed? By the time April rolled around (both literally and figuratively), I knew enough to appreciate her fresh approach. So I stopped querying and started editing again, eventually polishing that second draft into a story (95,000 words, for those of you keeping score) that she would be proud to represent. We signed a contract in September, and a few months later the manuscript was accepted by our first choice of publisher. Yeah!

Signing this contract now seems like the inevitable conclusion to a decade of effort—writing and editing, publishing with a small press, self-publishing, querying, more editing. Living through it, though, I was never sure of where each step would lead. So before the next phase begins, I’m taking time to be grateful. Grateful for my imagination, without which none of this would be possible. Grateful for the readers who gave me such positive feedback on various drafts—even last year’s hot mess. Grateful to April, for taking me on and for finding such a good home for this next book. And especially grateful to my family and friends, for supporting me while I chased this crazy writing dream.

Happy 2019—especially to the many authors who are still struggling to find their perfect publishing path. I can’t wait to share the next phase with you all.

Personal Highlights of 2018

The time between Christmas and the New Year always feels like a luscious interregnum: a chance to take a few deep breaths and look ahead at what’s next. Last week I spent more time gazing in the rear view mirror than looking forward, because 2018 was such a watershed year that I wasn’t quite ready to let it go. Here’s why.

 

In 2018, I…
Won a World Championship

In August, Kim Couranz and I won the Snipe Women’s Worlds by one point, the reward for eight years of sailing together. Frankly, if I’d done a better job on the starting line, we probably would’ve moved into first place well before the last leg of the last race. Instead, we had to use every single skill we’d learned to get the best out of each other (and lean heavily on our third teammate, coach Paul Cronin), and it came right down to the wire. Much more agonizing to live through—and therefore much more memorable.

Landed an Agent

In early September I signed with April Eberhardt, adding a new member to my book production team. This was also the culmination of many years of hard work; learning the publishing industry and how agents work, and also editing what was actually a not-quite-finished story into something that was ready for the world. April had both the vision to see what the book could become and the patience to read it again once I’d made most of the changes she suggested. I also have to thank editor (and author) Kate Racculia, who walked me through a developmental edit with so many smiles that I (almost) wanted her to find more to fix.

Celebrated our 20th Wedding Anniversary

Although the actual date wasn’t until June 12, Paul and I spent the first week in May in Dingle, Ireland (before the sailing season started up at home). We made friends that felt like family (thanks to the “other” Carol Cronin), visited places that felt like home even though we’d never been there before, and brought back both memories and photographs that will recapture the week for us for years to come.

Thanks for everything, 2018—I know you didn’t treat everyone else nearly as well, so I’m especially grateful for these three reasons to celebrate. Here’s to 2019… and get ready for more exciting news very soon!

Happy 10th Anniversary, Oliver’s Surprise!

As 2018 morphs into 2019, I want to recognize an important anniversary; it’s been just over 10 years since the first edition of Oliver’s Surprise was published! The book first came out on September 21, 2008, the 70th anniversary of the 1938 Hurricane. It was so well received by teachers that we came out with a second edition in 2009, which included more historical background about the hurricane and coasting schooners—as well as a teaser for the sequel, Cape Cod Surprise. 

Despite all the upheaval in the publishing world since then, most basics still ring true. So here are 10 things that haven’t changed about books and publishing since 2008.

Readers don’t care who the publisher is….
but we sure notice formatting errors and typos.
Books are still judged by their covers.
Timing affects a book’s popularity and buzz.
Well-written books don’t go out of style.
Every book deserves a good editor.
Drawings get noticed.
Wooden boats are their own attraction.
The easiest way to teach kids history is through stories.

And, last but not least…

10. We all still crave a good story.

If you’ve already read Oliver’s Surprise, consider submitting a review as it will really help the book’s visibility. (If you haven’t read it yet, it’s available on Amazon and at your favorite indie bookstore.)

Happy Anniversary, Oliver’s Surprise! (And for the rest of us, Happy New Year.)

A Christmas Kayak Story

Here’s a short story to thank you all for a great year. Merry Merry!

When the store’s bells jingled, Kate stood up so fast she whacked her head on a back room shelf. Peeking around the doorway, she spotted a man in a puffy jacket pressing her front door closed. Instead of glancing around the showroom—kayak rack, wood-topped glass display case, Kate and her sloppy ponytail, wetsuits hanging like rubber mummies—his gaze homed in on the red kayak in the front window, draped in Christmas lights.

Thanks, Santa.

Three weeks ago, the day after Kyle left, Kate had heaved that kayak—shiny and red, her most expensive model—onto racks in the storefront window. There, done, she’d told herself, wiping dusty hands on tired jeans.

The last two years, Kyle had helped with the holiday display. This year, judging only by his increasingly infrequent texts, he wasn’t even coming home for Christmas. So instead of wasting hours on a fancy showpiece, arranging and rearranging dozens of small but shiny temptations—“holiday bait,” he’d called it—and running outside herself to check each subtle change, Kate had filled the window with one big-ticket item. Added a string of lights, and ten minutes later she was finished.

Which left the rest of that afternoon—hell, the rest of December—to clean out her storeroom. Or perch on the hard stool behind her counter, playing endless rounds of Solitaire and Angry Birds. Day after lonely day, waiting for someone—anyone—to set the door’s sleigh bells jingling.

“That one for sale?” the man asked, pointing at the kayak. His fingernails looked manicured. Did men do that too?

“Yes of course.” Kate pasted on her retail smile. “Would you like to try–”

“No need.” He slid out a silver money clip and selected a credit card.

Yesterday afternoon, after searching for a fresh roll of paper towels and instead finding the brimming bag marked “Xmas,” Kate had scattered an array of colorful boxes around the kayak in the front window. Unlocking the door this morning, Christmas Eve, she’d smiled despite her black loneliness; it looked like the kayak was paddling through a sea of presents. All it needed was that plastic Santa in the cockpit. So, in defiance of common sense—what was the point in adding eye candy now, on this final shopping day of the season?—she’d dug Santa out of storage too.

And now she had a buyer holiding out a credit card. Thanks, Santa, for saving my store.

After five years in business, Kate had learned that making it through the long dark winter was like paddling upwind against a building sea breeze; each month was harder than the last. She usually made it through December by tempting shoppers inside with her artful displays of affordable stocking stuffers. Not this year.

And just like paddling upwind, sometimes there were lulls and you actually made some headway. Like a guy waltzing in to buy a fancy kayak on Christmas Eve, not even asking how much it cost.

She stole a look to her left at its yellow sistership. Maybe she’d be able to keep it after all.

“I’m short on time,” he said, tapping his foot. The crease between his eyebrows had deepened.

“Um… do you have racks?” she asked.

“Racks?” He cocked his crew cut to one side.

“Roofracks. For your car.” He was still frowning. “How are you planning to transport it?”

“Oh! Can’t you do that?”

“I can, but–” Not every time you go paddling, she wanted to add. Instead she reached for his credit card and carried it back to the counter. Better ring him up, before he came to his senses.

“This for you?” She was stalling, waiting for her credit card reader to wake up. “Great boat. I paddle the same design—that yellow one, right over there. Oh—and I’ll need your address.”

He rattled off a street right on the ocean, adding, “Number 121. Can you get it there right away?”

She nodded. “Just sign here.”

“I’ll take those lights, too. Save me another stop.” The money clip emerged again, just long enough for a twenty to be transferred to the counter.

“They’re not outside lights,” she reminded him, handing back his card.

“Doesn’t matter.”

“Well okay then, thank you very much for coming in today! Want me to toss in those fake presents as–”

But the bells were already jingling behind him.

Who bought a top of the line kayak on Christmas Eve, without really looking at it—or asking the price?

But that one sale would cover December’s rent.

Twenty minutes later, Kate was driving the red kayak up Main Street, fan belt squealing with cold. The setting sun played peekaboo until she reached the ocean, where it gilded both white surf and the silver slate shoreline.

A mailbox marked 121 sat on top of a varnished post curving up from the ground like a bow. She turned into the drive and the truck—quieter, now—climbed a steep hill until the gravel circled back on itself. The house was wrapped in porches. Somewhere out of sight, surf crashed into shore.

A massive front door opened to reveal a shaggy-haired man in khaki pants—not the buyer. An employee, then.

“That goes at the end of the driveway,” he told her, pointing back down the hill.

“But…” it’ll get stolen, she wanted to say.

“Oh never mind, just leave it on the grass and I’ll move it.”

She climbed out, loosened the kayak straps. “Why down there?”

“Christmas party tonight. He wants something to mark the driveway.” His shrug seemed to add, “Crazy, right?”, before lips stretched into a distracted smile. “Thanks for delivering it so quick.”

“No problem–” but he’d already closed the front door.

She set the kayak down on the circle of soft grass and drove around it on her way out, bile washing up in her throat. She couldn’t even afford her own stocking stuffers, and a guy had just bought her most expensive kayak as a party ornament!

As soon as she got back to her store, Kate’s neighbor jingled through the door and asked what happened to the window display. Kate explained, trying to ignore the large crystal—blinking red, then green—hanging around Cindy’s neck.

“But that’s so great!” Cindy said.

“I guess…” Kate sighed. “If all he wanted was a lawn ornament, he could’ve bought some cheap plastic thing.”

“No different from all those boats you sell that you predict will only be used once.”

“This is totally different!” Kate frowned. “Those kayaks represent hope. And hope is the only–”

“Can’t pay the rent with hope.”

“You do.” Kate waved at their shared wall. “Crystals are just hope by a different–”

“Crystals,” Cindy announced, “are a scientific force of nature. You should get one—turn your life around. Heard from Kyle?”

Kate shook her head.

“What, he’s not coming home for—wait, did you guys break up? Aw, Kate…”

Cindy reached out for a hug, so Kate put the counter between them.

“It’s fine,” she replied, keeping her voice steady. “Imagine if we’d gotten married, had a few kids, and THEN he’d sailed away and never called…”

“You can always dream up a worse scenario than the one you’re actually in.”

“It’s called hope,” Kate repeated, stretching her lips into what might pass for a smile.

A woman wrapped in a thick scarf knocked and pointed next door, so Cindy went back to work. But a few minutes later, she returned with a pale blue ribbon dangling from her fingertips. One of her alphabet crystals; the K, of course.

“Maybe this draws Kyle home. If not, it stands for Kayak.”

“Cindy!” Kate blinked back a fresh round of tears; she’d never been particularly nice to this woman. “I don’t have anything for–”

“Shut up and turn around.” Cindy tied the ribbon around Kate’s neck and kissed her on the cheek. “Merry Christmas! I’m going home, and you should too—it’s after six.”

So Kate shut off the lights, pulled on her jacket, and patted the yellow kayak goodnight on her way out.

Tomorrow was Christmas. It would be warm enough for paddling, but she couldn’t go by herself. So instead she’d drink way too much cocoa and watch all her favorite black and white movies. Not think about last year, when she’d spent all day waiting for Kyle to pop the question.

Maybe the K just stood for Kate.

Her truck squealed away from the curb. But the thought of an empty cold apartment made her detour to check on the kayak. Would it really spend Christmas Eve on the roadside, with only that funky mailbox for company?

A few hundred yards away, she spotted a lit shape—but instead of outlining a sleek kayak, white lights pointed up toward the sky. Like… a penis.

Kate shut off the truck and got out. The problem was the weird mailbox; the lights had been draped over it as well. She rearranged the string to follow the kayak’s deck, chuckling and shivering and then starting to cry all over again. Poor kayak, turned into a giant lawn–

A flashlight beamed right into her eyes. “What are—oh, it’s you.” He lowered the beam, and she recognized the caretaker’s shaggy outline. “Forget something? Or maybe you’re trying to crash the party.”

A party marked by a phallus? Kate snorted.

“Actually, that’s a very good idea I’ve just had,” he went on, as if she hadn’t made a sound. “You probably have something interesting to say, unlike most of the guests.” Pointing the flashlight at her truck, he went around to the passenger door. “I’ll take a ride—save me climbing that damn hill for the tenth time today.”

When he pulled open the door, she heard a few discarded coffee cups fall to the pavement. She blushed, but it sounded like her unexpected passenger was chuckling as he tossed them back into the footwell and climbed inside.

Not knowing what to do next, she started up the truck. It—he—smelled like curry. Or cumin, maybe.

“I’m Karl,” he told her, as the truck climbed the hill without squealing for once. “With a K, in case you’re wondering.”

Kate touched the crystal, then dropped her hand back to the wheel. Just a coincidence, she told herself.

He was looking at her. “Now’s the part where you tell me your name.”

“Kate. Also with a K.”

“How remarkable. So, Kate with a K, why were you moving my kayak lights?”

Blood heated her cheeks. How long had he been watching her? “Didn’t look right,” she mumbled.

“That’s no surprise,” he replied, cheerily. “I used up all my light-stringing patience on that damned tree.” He pointed through the windshield, but at first Kate only saw the house; a single candle-shaped bulb shining in each upstairs window, first floor spilling light out onto side porches. It wasn’t until she drove into the circle that she noticed that its grassy hub now sported a fir tree. It was thick with white lights.

“Wow, that’s beautiful…” She dragged her eyes back to the windshield just in time to stomp on the brakes—a dark sedan stood in the driveway, the last arrival to a gravel circle filled with glinting vehicles.

Surf pounded—no wait, that was a bass drum, inside the house. Karl opened his door, and she heard an electric guitar riffing Jingle Bells. A dark suit danced by the front window, arms around a little black dress.

“I don’t think this is a very good idea,” she said, before he could get out of the truck. “I’m still in my work clothes and… I’ve got to get back.”

“Back to what?” Like he really wanted to know. not like a wiseacre.

“Back to….” A phone that wouldn’t ring, and an empty refrigerator.

“Come on. There’s a ton of food. And everyone’s too drunk to even notice your jeans.” He slammed the door before any coffee cups could escape again.

What the hell, it beat starving alone. Kate followed Karl up the front steps.

He was just about to push open the enormous door when something crashed inside and the music screeched to a halt; Karl pivoted right instead and followed the porch around to the back, where waves pounding rocks almost drowned out the raised voices inside.

“Wow—what a view.” Though the breeze bit right through to her bones.

“Better than TV. Come inside—we can watch the waves, until they get things sorted out upstairs.” He waved her toward a sliding glass door beneath the deck; she stood back to let him pull it open.

Once he closed the door behind her, it was warm and cozy inside. He crossed to a small fridge. “Boss insisted on a live band, but the room’s not really big enough for dancing. Beer?”

“Sure.” This must be his apartment. So far out of her comfort zone…

But it wasn’t like her comfort zone was really all that comfortable at the moment. And no one should spend Christmas Eve alone.

“You live here?” she asked, though the answer was obvious. She dropped her jacket on top of his, over a chair just inside the doorway.

“Two years next June.”

“Must get kinda quiet this time of year.”

Upstairs, a reedy female voice started singing: “Here comes Santa Claus, here comes Santa Claus…” Once the guitar player and drummer joined in, they drowned out the waves.

Karl raised his voice a few notches. “Except when it’s too damned noisy, like tonight.” He handed over a cold bottle. “Cheers. And Merry Christmas—or whatever you happen to celebrate this time of–”

“Christmas is my favorite holiday.”

“Really?” He crossed the room, settled onto a leather couch that faced the ocean, and rested his feet on a low table. “Why is that?”

“Because it’s all about hope. And hope is the only thing…”

Standing behind the couch was a shiny kayak paddle. “Wow, is this yours?” Now THAT was inside her comfort zone. She touched the blade, which had one nick and a few good scratches. “You didn’t buy this beauty from me—I’d remember.”

“I’ve had it for six years,” he said.

“Yeah, and I’ve only been in business for five. I miss paddling,” she added, dropping onto the opposite end of the couch. “I started the business because I loved it so much. Now I’m too busy in the summer. And too broke in the–”

“Hope is the only thing that what?”

“Hope is the only thing everyone can afford,” she repeated. “Kind of a mantra for me, these days.” The beer slid down her throat, cool and refreshing, melting away that lump of unshed tears. Outside, the upstairs lights lit up each wave’s white crest. What a spot.

“Does that mean you still believe in Santa Claus?” he asked.

“Yes, as a matter of fact. He brought me a gift today—your boss!” Then her smile faded. “But my boyfriend’s down in the islands. And he seems to have forgotten how to text.”

“Doesn’t sound like much of a boyfriend.” Karl’s shrug stirred the air between them. Definitely cumin, she decided.

She picked at the hem of her sweater, which was starting to unravel. “Quite a view,” she said, just for something to say. “It’s–”

“Mesmerizing,” they both said at the same time, then laughed. So easy, just sitting here; even the cold bottle felt good against her palms.

He took another drink and then said, “I have a confession to make.”

“Let me guess—you intentionally hung those lights to look like a penis?” Dang, three sips of lager and she was already buzzed.

“Is that why you were out there moving them off the mailbox?” He chuckled, then set down his beer to hold up his hands in surrender. “I hereby plead not guilty to everything except poor quality control.”

The bass drum thumped. Sleigh bells ring, are you listening…

“So what’s the confession then?”

“I asked my boss to buy that kayak.” He angled up his bottle for the final slug of beer, Adam’s apple bobbing. “He agreed, as long as he could use it tonight for–”

“Why?”

“I’ve been driving by your shop three or four times a day, checking it out. So beautiful.” He was looking out the window, but she could see his right cheek reddening. “The kayak, I mean.”

“You could’ve just come inside yourself!”

“I couldn’t afford it. So I would’ve felt like a stalker. Or bought something cheaper that I didn’t need, just to make you happy.”

“This makes me happy,” she said, without thinking. “Sitting here, drinking a cold beer, not pretending to be anything but myself, watching the waves…”

The crash of cymbals overhead: a horror movie sound track.

She clunked the bottle down, catching it just before it tipped over, and stood up. “I’ve gotta go.”

“But you just said…”

“I know, but I’ve also just realized…”

“That you’re alone with someone who’s admitted to stalking you?” He set down his empty bottle, like he was about to get up. “Sorry. I should’ve–”

“And nobody knows where I…” She stopped herself, heart racing. If she bolted out the door, could she make it to the truck before he…? Probably not. And besides, the keys were in her jacket. She forced herself to look back at him, instead of running away.

His dark head was cocked to one side, studying her. “How could you possibly be scared of a guy who owns a carbon fiber paddle?”

It was so unexpected, she snorted. “Excellent question.”

Her heart slowed again, though she remained standing. He hadn’t moved. “So, you’re not an axe murderer then?”

“Nope. Too bad, I’m missing a great opportunity…” Smiling, he stood up at last. “Want another beer?” He crossed to the fridge to pull one out for himself.

“No thanks. I’m driving.” And already half-drunk.

Upstairs, the drums were back under control, and the singer was dreaming of a white Christmas.

“Hungry?”

“Starving,” she admitted.

“Stay right there.” He set down his beer and slipped out the door.

She rubbed at her crystal and watched the waves until he reappeared outside with a steaming plate in each hand. She pulled open the door just enough for him to slip inside, along with another mouth-watering aroma: teriyaki.

“Wow, that smells delicious.” Her stomach rumbled.

Karl set the plates down on the coffee table. Fished his own fork and knife out of the dish drainer, found another set inside a drawer.

“There’s a huge carrot cake up there too, so I’ll have to make a second trip.” He tore off a paper towel and ripped it in two. “Fresh out of fancy napkins,” he added, handing over her half before sitting down again.

“Merry Christmas Karl.” She raised her empty bottle to clink against his full one. “And thank you.”

“Merry Christmas Kate.” He held her gaze, smiling. “Here’s to hope.”

Wordplay: Parsing Pleonasm

I learned a new word yesterday: pleonasm. Not only is it really, really fun to say (so, um, nasally), but in only eight letters and just three syllables, it gives name to the words I have focused really, really hard on editing out of my own writing: the ones that don’t change the meaning of a sentence.

(In the previous sentence, there are several pleonasms, including um, only, just, and of course all those “really”s.)

Its origin, according to my computer’s “built-in” dictionary, goes all the way back in time to the 16th century, so I’m not sure how I’ve managed to miss it in lo these many years of word-collecting. It comes from the Greek for “superfluous.” But how much more appropriate is “pleonastic”, even though no one except a few dictionary geeks will know its meaning! As it gets stuck in the back of the throat, clogging up each sentence like a piece of phlegm (another fun word to say), it proves its own unnecessary-ness—and at the same time, makes itself memorable. Meanwhile, the much more popular “superfluous” slides out of us easily, usually tacked on at the end of a sentence about our own feelings; the sentence prom queen, full of self-important sibilance.

(Pleonasm also sounds like a Spoonerized version of “neoplasm” (a new and abnormal growth of tissue). Perhaps we can pleonast the next neoplast we come across.)

Wordplay is not just a fun diversion, because word choices matter. How a word sounds (and whether it sticks in our throat when we speak it) can affect the pace and tone of an entire paragraph. Ergo, editing out superfluous pleonasms (see what I did there?) matters. Once we get into the habit it might even become contagious, because the clearer and more concise we make our own writing, the more we will inspire clarity in others.

Maybe, with a little practice and enough repetition, we can make all those pleonasms disappear—though that would be a shame, since the word itself is even more fun than a prom queen.

Book Review: Small Great Things

I’ve long admired author Jodi Picoult for daring to delve into topics that don’t have any simple answers. In her twenty-fifth novel, Small Great Things, the theme is unconscious bias. Though this term is now in common use, I’m guessing that when Picoult first sat down to write this book (published in 2016), it was not. Which makes me wonder if this work of fiction has helped bring to light how the world really works.

The main character is Ruth, an experienced nurse who happens to be the only African-American working in labor and delivery at a small hospital in New Haven. When Ruth tries to examine a newborn, the white supremacist father requests that she not touch his son and complains to a supervisor; Ruth is reassigned. Then the baby goes into cardiac arrest, Ruth tries and fails to resuscitate him, and the father accuses Ruth of murder.

The public defender who takes Ruth’s case insists that mentioning race in the courtroom will only make the jury unsympathetic, so Ruth is forced to battle with her own conscience as well as a murder trial; is it worth going to jail, just to have her say about what it’s like to be a Black woman? (I capitalize Black intentionally, just as Picoult does—but only in the chapters told from Ruth’s perspective.)

I was already drawn into the story by the time I realized that Ruth would not be the only narrator. Just after Turk, the white supremacist dad, throws Ruth out of the delivery room (but before his son dies), we begin to see the world through his eyes. How much he loves his wife and son. How much he hates African-Americans (though he uses a very different word), and anyone else born without pure white Aryan blood. It is sickening to read, and yet Picoult manages to make Turk sympathetic, both by forcing us to walk in his shoes and by allowing him to change. (His ending, based on a real-life experience, is perhaps the most surprising of all.)

The third point of view is Kennedy, Ruth’s lawyer. She chose to become a public defender because she wants to help people; “I was never going to get rich, but I’d be able to look myself in the eye.” She can afford this choice because of her surgeon-husband’s salary and support; he tells her, “I’ll make the money, you make the difference.”  But by the time we meet Kennedy (yes, she was named after JFK), she has realized that the system itself is a large part of the problem. As she gets to know Ruth, she also begins to see how much that system—fueled by both conscious and unconscious bias—has helped her go about her own life and raise her daughter without the endless, gut-punching fear that Ruth and her son take for granted as part of the everyday. Kennedy doesn’t pretend to find answers by book’s end, but she does learn to see herself in a very different light.

Somehow, the story is never without hope—even as each character acknowledges the insurmountable challenge of achieving racial equity. Not equality, Kennedy corrects Ruth:

“Equality is treating everyone the same. But equity is taking differences into account, so everyone has a chance to succeed.” I look at her. “The first one sounds fair. The second one is fair. It’s equal to give a printed test to two kids. But if one’s blind and one’s sighted, that’s not true. You ought to give one a Braille test and one a printed test, which both cover the same material.”

Since most of Picoult’s readership is white, I’m guessing most (like me) will find Kennedy’ point of view familiar. I also like to think that others (like me) will be able to “see” the world through the eyes of an African-American nurse and a white supremacist, because only through well-written, thoughtful fiction like this can we world-jump inside our heads to a place where we are the ones who look different.

I do have one quibble; the overuse of medical techno-jargon, especially in early chapters. Maybe Picoult and her editors thought they were showing Ruth’s experience and competence, but for those of us who have no idea what all those acronyms mean, they don’t establish credibility—all they do is distract from the story. This small complaint is definitely outweighed by such an excellent mix of entertainment and education; I will be thinking about this book for a long, long time. I recommend it to anyone who, like me, spends most of her days surrounded by people who look the same, because this book will make you realize that is a privilege rather than a right.

The title is taken from a quote that, as Picoult says in the excellent author’s note at the end, is “often attributed” to Reverend Dr. Martin Luther King Jr: “If I cannot do great things, I can do small things in a great way.” I’m taking this story as much-needed inspiration, to do a few small things in my world that will help everyone achieve their dreams.

PS: I didn’t realize until I sat down to write this review and looked at the cover in detail: it is a bunch of color chips. And “white” is missing.

2018 Holiday Book List

It’s December, so get thee to a bookstore! For inspiration, here’s this year’s Holiday Book List.

We all have our book buying habits, but I encourage you to support your local independent bookseller. For those of us here in Newport County, Island Books in Middletown is a treasure trove. Free gift wrapping, some excellent suggestions for everyone on your list, and if they don’t have what you’re looking for they will get it for you without any fuss.

Now without further ado, here are some of the books I read this year.

Go, Went, Gone

Reading teaches empathy, because it allows us to walk in different shoes without leaving our own lives. This skinny book places us into the frustrating world of African asylum seekers, who’ve come to Germany to work but can’t get jobs due to convoluted EU laws. It is an “unassuming but important story [that] dropped me into a world I’d heard about only on the news, and made it personal.” (Reading the review now, it also makes me realize how long ago this seems; the news scrambles on, so quickly, from one drama to the next.) Read more

A Dangerous Fiction

A book about a literary agent stalked by a client; how could any agent-hunting author resist? (I also enjoyed Barbara Rogan’s 1996 novel, Rowing in Eden.) Read more

Still Water Bending vs. Happiness

Each book I read is different, and these two titles provided such stark contrast that my back-to-back reading inspired a comparison review. After the post went live, the author of SWB reached out to let me know that her book was published by a small press (not self-published, as I assumed). The lovely cover is her daughter’s work, so my guess about “a family member” was correct. Read more

Footprints in the Dust

Roberta Gately applied all her fiction skills to this memoir about helping refugees who’d fled their homes and left behind (as she puts it) “everything but hope.” It is as much of a page-turner as her two novels. Read more

This Must Be the Place

I would not have found this book if I hadn’t first found its author, Kate Racculia, who edited Ferry to Cooperation Island. I read her latest novel, Bellweather Rhapsody, as a distraction from waiting for her editorial suggestions, and I enjoyed it so much I followed it up with her first. Both are delightfully quirky, and her third book will publish in 2019. Read more

There are many, many other books I enjoyed in 2018, including:

The Vintner’s Daughter by Kristin Harnisch

13 Ways of Looking at the Novel by Jane Smiley

Finding Pax by Kaci Cronkhite

Girl in the Afternoon by Serena Burdick

Manhattan Beach by Jennifer Egan

Leeway Cottage by Beth Gutcheon

Eden by Jeanne McWilliams Blasberg

For more info on each (plus a few I didn’t include here), visit my Goodreads page.

And before I rush off to Island Books for my own holiday shopping, below are links to previous years’ lists. (One of the best things about giving books as gifts is that they never go “bad.”) Happy shopping, reading, and holidays!

2017 Holiday Book List

2016 Holiday Book List

2015

2013

2011

2010