Randy Susan Meyers's Blog, page 48

Book Trailer Thursday: THE DOCTOR AND THE DIVA

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Book trailers are such a brave new media. Some are awful droning talking heads (you know what I mean) where the author looks like he'd rather be shoveling coal in Siberia than filming the interview. Some are almost good–but too long. And some, like Goldilocks found, are just right and manage to capture the spirit and genre of the book.

In today's trailer, author Adrienne McDonnell describes the genesis of her book. The Washington Post wrote this about The Doctor and the Diva: Some novels just naturally enslave you, and this is one of them. "The Doctor and the Diva" (what a frivolous title for such a serious and gripping book!) is a carefully researched period piece, covering the period from 1904 to 1914, set in very respectable Boston, wild and uncharted Trinidad and the operatic community of Florence, Italy.

(Almost) Weekly Launch Wednesday: EDEN LAKE

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(Almost) Weekly Book Launch Wednesday offers a taste of an author's book—from ones long on the shelves to those newly launched, because while you can't judge a book by the cover, you can tell plenty from the first pages. Today's book is about summer camp, so Jane Roper had me at hello.

In 1968, newlyweds Clay Perry and Carol Weiss transformed a sheep farm in central Maine into Eden Lake—a nontraditional, progressive summer camp for children.

Thirty years later, at the height of the Lewinsky scandal and the dot-com boom, Clay and Carol's marriage is long over and the camp has become a pricey playground for entitled suburbanites. When an unexpected tragedy strikes, the Perryweiss children have to decide what role Eden Lake—and all that it stands for—will play in their lives.

"EDEN LAKE is an unusually accomplished debut novel about love and loss and the absurdities of summer camp. Jane Roper writes with quiet authority and sly humor about a large and intriguing cast of characters."

– Tom Perrotta, bestselling author of Election, Joe College and Little Children

"As a kid I lasted one week at summer camp, but at EDEN LAKE I overcame my phobia. This is due to the quirky, warm, funny, quixotic crew you'll meet in these pages, and the compassionate yet sharply observed story of a family assembling and reassembling itself after a father's death. I'll be revisiting EDEN LAKE many times."

– Jenna Blum, bestselling author of Those Who Save Us and The Stormchasers

EDEN LAKE

By Jane Roper

Just before noon on the morning after Memorial Day, Eric filled the tank of the John Deere, started the engine and rolled out of the barn into broad sunlight. He'd mowed just a week before, but already the grass was too long again—shaggy and soft and starting to bend under its own weight. He'd never seen it grow this fast, this early. This spring had been the mildest in years. The mud had come and gone sooner, as had the black flies. By the second week of May the oaks along the drive, always the last to bud, were already sprouting tender leaves. Everything was rushing toward summer.

Eric and his father and Gail, plus Doug Kotch, an old friend of his father's from Wesleyan, and the Crary brothers from down the road, had spent the long weekend waking the property up. They dragged the docks back into the lake and pulled the racks of canoes out of the boathouse. They swept the dead leaves and pine needles off the tennis courts and strung up the nets. They tossed all two hundred vinyl-covered foam mattresses down from the loft over the infirmary, loaded them onto the bed of the pickup twenty at a time, and distributed them to each of the cabins.

They worked briskly and took long breaks between jobs, sitting in the sun on the deck behind the dining hall, drinking from pottery mugs of coffee in the mornings and cans of beer in the afternoons. Then, on Monday, after Doug had left and Gail had gone into the office to do paperwork, Eric and his father traded their work boots for sneakers and tried out the brand new climbing wall behind the soccer field, at the base of the meadow that climbed the hill to the property line. Eric went first, and only halfway up the wall; he could tell his father was champing at the bit. Then they switched and Eric belayed his father.

"This is excellent!" Clay said over and over again as he climbed. Each time he attained another few feet of height, got steady on another foothold, he'd pause and grin down at Eric, holding the rope, and say it: "EX-cellent!"

Eric was alone on the property now. His father and Gail had left that morning, headed up to Bar Harbor in the Cessna for a quick, romantic getaway before the work of getting ready for the summer began in earnest. Eric had his own plans. Besides the mowing, which could take a good two hours start to finish, he intended to put a coat of polyurethane on the floor of the rec. hall. He had his evening planned out, too: a pizza and a couple of videos from the General Store. After that, if he wasn't too tired, he'd see if any of his friends—real or virtual—were online and felt like chatting. He kept in touch with a couple of people back at UMass this way.

Officially, he hadn't dropped out of school; he was just taking time off. But in his heart he knew he wasn't going back. Living in a tiny dorm room, sitting in crowded lecture halls where he had to strain to see the professor, eating bad cafeteria food and racking his brain to think about what he'd do after graduation, constantly coming up blank—why would he choose that, when he could choose Eden Lake instead?

He mowed the lawn around the farmhouse first, careful not to get too close to the tiger lilies alongside the house. Next, he went around back and did the main lawn, which stretched from the gravel drive to the west of the farmhouse all the way across to the rec. hall and the arts and crafts buildings nestled in the strip of thinned pine forest that backed up to the lake.

As he was starting toward the soccer field he noticed that the gas gauge was already down to half a tank, which concerned him. He shouldn't be burning fuel that fast. He brought the tractor back around to the barn to take a look. As he was inspecting the tank—sure enough, there was a good-sized leak along the seam—he heard the distant rumble of a car coming down the road.

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Jane Roper is the author of Baby Squared, a narrative blog on Babble.com about her adventures and misadventures in parenting twins. She also writes fiction, nonfiction, and a whole lotta advertising and marketing copy. Jane lives and writes in the Boston area.

Her debut novel, Eden Lake, will be published in 2011 by Last Light Studio. Her memoir, Baby Squared, about the highs, lows and in-betweens of her first three years as a mother of twins will be published by St. Martin's Press in 2012.

The Reader-Writer Covenant

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What is the relationship between reader and writer? I've been a reader for far more hours of my life than I've been a writer. As a child, I made twice-weekly trips to the Kensington branch of the Brooklyn library nearest my home (my haul each time limited by the rules for children's cards.) Writers were gods to me, purveyors of that which I needed for sustenance. Food. Shelter. Books. Those were my life's priorities.

Naturally, I liked some books more than others. Some of the books I read as a child etched themselves on my soul (A Tree Grows in Brooklyn). I felt as if these books reached inside me and wrenched out truth.

As an adult reader I still feel that way; I'm constantly foraging for books that offer glimpses into a character's psyche, that go deep enough to make me part of the choir, saying, "Oh yeah, me too, tell it, writer. True that, uh huh."

Now that I am a writer, I've learned that reaching so deep isn't always comfortable. Hey, my daughter's gonna read this! Hey, husband: this isn't you!It's far easier to skate on the surface. And, honestly, there is a place on my shelf for those soothing books. Sometimes I want a comfort read, a total escape, a warm place to rest.

I believe there should be a covenant between writer and reader – an offering made by a writer to the reader. What it is that you, the writer, are offering to you, the reader? (Because I can't imagine a writer who is not also a reader.) Are you making a covenant with the reader? Are you offering the reader the same qualities that you want when you're the reader? Are you offering them your very best?

Sometimes I worry, that in the rush of wanting to publish, I could forget the importance of writing (in the inestimable words of Natalie Goldberg) down the bones.

My favorite books, the ones I return to time and again, are those ones gritty enough to have emotional truth (which is very different than the truth of events.)  Thus, I try to write with a knife held to my own throat, so that my work will hold as much emotional truth as possible. Another reader/writer might prefer a thriller that sets their heart pounding–but every genre owns it's own truth and depth. I suspect that the best writers in each  genre are readers of the same.

Books are precious to me. Right now I am turning the pages of Game Change by John Heilemann and Mark Halperin in every spare moment. I schlepped the thing on Amtrak from Boston to Albany to Rhinebeck. I could have taken a lighter book, or simply read something on my electronic device. This is a controversial book – many have denounced it as no more than gossip. But whatever it is, it satisfies my hungry reader. I was so desperate to read this book that I was unwilling to leave it behind for 4 days. (I think Halperin and Heilemann put themselves on the good edge of their genre covering political intrigue in a presidential campaign.)

That's exactly what this reader wants: writers who have dug deep, whatever their genre, and given me those best hours of my day. They kept their covenant with me.

The Reader-Writer Covenant (Reprise)

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What is the relationship between reader and writer? I've been a reader for far more hours of my life than I've been a writer. As a child, I made twice-weekly trips to the Kensington branch of the Brooklyn library nearest my home (my haul each time limited by the rules for children's cards.) Writers were gods to me, purveyors of that which I needed for sustenance. Food. Shelter. Books. Those were my life's priorities.

Naturally, I liked some books more than others. Some of the books I read as a child etched themselves on my soul (A Tree Grows in Brooklyn). I felt as if these books reached inside me and wrenched out truth.

As an adult reader I still feel that way; I'm constantly foraging for books that offer glimpses into a character's psyche, that go deep enough to make me part of the choir, saying, "Oh yeah, me too, tell it, writer. True that, uh huh."

Now that I am a writer, I've learned that reaching so deep isn't always comfortable. Hey, my daughter's gonna read this! Hey, husband: this isn't you!It's far easier to skate on the surface. And, honestly, there is a place on my shelf for those soothing books. Sometimes I want a comfort read, a total escape, a warm place to rest.

I believe there should be a covenant between writer and reader – an offering made by a writer to the reader. What it is that you, the writer, are offering to you, the reader? (Because I can't imagine a writer who is not also a reader.) Are you making a covenant with the reader? Are you offering the reader the same qualities that you want when you're the reader? Are you offering them your very best?

Sometimes I worry, that in the rush of wanting to publish, I could forget the importance of writing (in the inestimable words of Natalie Goldberg) down the bones.

My favorite books, the ones I return to time and again, are those ones gritty enough to have emotional truth (which is very different than the truth of events.)  Thus, I try to write with a knife held to my own throat, so that my work will hold as much emotional truth as possible. Another reader/writer might prefer a thriller that sets their heart pounding–but every genre owns it's own truth and depth. I suspect that the best writers in each  genre are readers of the same.

Books are precious to me. Right now I am turning the pages of Game Change by John Heilemann and Mark Halperin in every spare moment. I schlepped the thing on Amtrak from Boston to Albany to Rhinebeck. I could have taken a lighter book, or simply read something on my electronic device. This is a controversial book – many have denounced it as no more than gossip. But whatever it is, it satisfies my hungry reader. I was so desperate to read this book that I was unwilling to leave it behind for 4 days. (I think Halperin and Heilemann put themselves on the good edge of their genre covering political intrigue in a presidential campaign.)

That's exactly what this reader wants: writers who have dug deep, whatever their genre, and given me those best hours of my day. They kept their covenant with me.

Re-remembering Mothers

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I never met a book by Ruth Reichl I haven't loved, and my adoration continued with this book.

Where others were hearty meals, Not Becoming My Mother (retitled for the paperback as For You Mom, Finally) was a deceptively simple snack. (I'm certain that Ms. Reichl, editor of Gourmet Magazine, would find a more elegant food analogy, but I, alas, am but a quick and dirty cook, though one who loves reading the work of educated ones—like Ruth Reichl)

In her previous books, the author consistently folded her cooking and restaurant reviewing skills into personal memoir—making a mixture with the consistency of magic. Her work has always been fascinating, down-to-earth, and erudite—and always offered the reader fascinating glimpses into the world of food and Ms. Reichl's own intriguing life, which often included portraits of her sad, unusual, and, to the author, exasperating, mother.

This 110-page gem boils it all down to the author's mother true story. It is not an apology for what she's previously written. Or, perhaps, it is.

Any daughter whose lived her life under the thumb of her mother's quirks and enraging mothering mistakes will fly through this book, reading of Reichl's brave attempts to find out the truth of her mother's life. She writes of living her life on "Mim tales"—a trait with which my sister and I can over-identify, having dined, perhaps too long, on a pathetic treasure trove of Mom stories.

But as I read the author's unearthing of her mother's truth (her now-realization of her mother's eccentricities as representing being crammed into the tiniest of housewifery boxes and the narrowest of work roles) I found it hard to catch my breath, amazed at the author's courage in uncovering her own perhaps lack of generosity towards her mother, and deeply admiring her ability to now find the heroic in her mother.

Because I was with her every step.

Like Ruth Reichl, I too berate myself for not managing to rise above the role of daughter to my mother, and become a woman and friend to her. However, perhaps when one grows up with a larger-than-life mother, that's an impossible goal. Maybe only after death severed a relationship that held us so emotionally hostage that we spent our lives holding our breath, can we step back and offer perspective.

So, thank you Mom for being a role model of friendship, you who offered such a striking portrait of being a loyal companion to so many wonderful women.

Thank you Mom for showing such a flair for beauty.

Thank you for showing us the wonder and fun of work.

For laughing very hard. For always appreciating a good story. For your advice on men.  And women.

Yes, you were often right. About many things. I can now consider you a hero, because you lived your life trying very hard. And I know that now.

We miss you. Happy Mother's Day.

Re-remembering Mothers (reprise)

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I never met a book by Ruth Reichl I haven't loved, and my adoration continued with this book.

Where others were hearty meals, Not Becoming My Mother (retitled for the paperback as For You Mom, Finally) was a deceptively simple snack. (I'm certain that Ms. Reichl, editor of Gourmet Magazine, would find a more elegant food analogy, but I, alas, am but a quick and dirty cook, though one who loves reading the work of educated ones—like Ruth Reichl)

In her previous books, the author consistently folded her cooking and restaurant reviewing skills into personal memoir—making a mixture with the consistency of magic. Her work has always been fascinating, down-to-earth, and erudite—and always offered the reader fascinating glimpses into the world of food and Ms. Reichl's own intriguing life, which often included portraits of her sad, unusual, and, to the author, exasperating, mother.

This 110-page gem boils it all down to the author's mother true story. It is not an apology for what she's previously written. Or, perhaps, it is.

Any daughter whose lived her life under the thumb of her mother's quirks and enraging mothering mistakes will fly through this book, reading of Reichl's brave attempts to find out the truth of her mother's life. She writes of living her life on "Mim tales"—a trait with which my sister and I can over-identify, having dined, perhaps too long, on a pathetic treasure trove of Mom stories.

But as I read the author's unearthing of her mother's truth (her now-realization of her mother's eccentricities as representing being crammed into the tiniest of housewifery boxes and the narrowest of work roles) I found it hard to catch my breath, amazed at the author's courage in uncovering her own perhaps lack of generosity towards her mother, and deeply admiring her ability to now find the heroic in her mother.

Because I was with her every step.

Like Ruth Reichl, I too berate myself for not managing to rise above the role of daughter to my mother, and become a woman and friend to her. However, perhaps when one grows up with a larger-than-life mother, that's an impossible goal. Maybe only after death severed a relationship that held us so emotionally hostage that we spent our lives holding our breath, can we step back and offer perspective.

So, thank you Mom for being a role model of friendship, you who offered such a striking portrait of being a loyal companion to so many wonderful women.

Thank you Mom for showing such a flair for beauty.

Thank you for showing us the wonder and fun of work.

For laughing very hard. For always appreciating a good story. For your advice on men.  And women.

Yes, you were often right. About many things. I can now consider you a hero, because you lived your life trying very hard. And I know that now.

We miss you. Happy Mother's Day.

First Pages Friday: AFTER YOU by Julie Buxbaum

 

First Pages Fridays offers a taste of an author's book—from ones long on the shelves to those newly launched, because while you can't judge a book by the cover, you can tell plenty from the first pages.

Today's book, AFTER YOU by Julie Buxbaum:

On a cobblestone street in Notting Hill, Ellie Lerner's life-long best friend, Lucy, is stabbed to death in front of her eight-year-old daughter. Ellie, of course, drops everything – her job, her marriage, her life in the Boston suburbs – and travels to London to pick up the pieces of the life Lucy has left behind. While Lucy's husband, Greg copes with his grief by retreating to the pub, eight-year-old Sophie has simply stopped speaking.

"Buxbaum skillfully handles this tale of grief and growing, resonant with realistic emotional stakes and hard-won wisdom."—Publishers Weekly

AFTER YOU

by Julie Buxbaum

Let's pretend that things are different. That in the last couple of days, I haven't become the kind of person who resorts to wishing on eyelashes, first stars of the night, and the ridiculous 11:11, both a.m. and p.m., in earnest and with my eyes closed. That Lucy and her family haven't transformed into tabloid stars with a full picture on the cover of the Daily Mail with the headline Notting Hill Murdergate!, and the lead story on the BBC evening news. Let's pretend that I am home, on the right side of the Atlantic, the one where I understand the English language, and that tomorrow will be just like early last week, or the week before that one, when the days were indistinguishable. That it's not necessary to resort to memories—to a time before—when I think of Lucy.

How about this: Let's just pretend that Lucy is not dead.

That she will not continue to be dead now, even though that's what that means—dead.

"Want some more?" I ask Sophie, Lucy's eight-year-old daughter, but she seems uninterested in the elaborate bowl of ice cream I've doused with concentric circles of whipped cream. She sits with her knees drawn to her chest and her arms wrapped around them. An upright fetal position, a pose that has been as reflexive for her as irrational wishing and pretending has been for me. Striped pastel pajamas ring her legs—pink, blue, yellow stripes—and on top, she wears a long-sleeved T-shirt with a decal of a purple horse with a silver mane. Her socks have abrasive soles that scratch and swish along the kitchen tiles, a sound I haven't heard since my own childhood and that I associate with my younger brother, Mikey, asking for a glass of water before bedtime.

She shakes her head no.

"Is it good?"

She stays noncommittal. Her tiny glasses slip down her nose and are caught by her finger, pushed back up with an efficient tap. They are tortoiseshell frames, brown on the outside, pink along the inner edges, like an eyelid, and they magnify her already large brown eyes, so that she always looks just a tiny bit moony.

Sophie has not been speaking much since the accident. That's what we've been calling it—Greg, Lucy's husband, and I—"the accident," a comforting euphemism despite the fact that there is nothing accidental about what happened. The word homicide is one that no eight-year-old should ever have to hear. Using accident makes us feel better too. As adults, we can handle an accident; that's in our repertoire.

I am not sure when Sophie last spoke out loud. She was interviewed by the police on Thursday, right afterward, and somehow Lucy's little girl found the strength to use her words and describe the unspeakable. When I arrived less than twenty-four hours later, blurry from grief and the red-eye, she said, "Hi, Auntie Ellie," before putting her arms around my waist and burying her face in my shirt. But since then, since that first greeting, spoken in her crisp British accent, I can't remember the last time I heard her voice. Did she say good night to Greg before he went upstairs and knocked himself out with Xanax?

"Soph?"

A shrug.

"Where did you get that shirt? It's pretty. And that horse has really cool hair."

Another shrug.

"Soph, sweetheart, are you not talking?"

Sophie just looks at me, her eyes burning in a silent protest.

Shrug number three. She looks impossibly small and thin, the stringiness of her arms and legs exaggerated by the unforgiving cotton of her pajamas. I wish she'd eat more. I want to feed her cookies and sugar cereal too. Tomorrow, first thing, I'll replace their two percent milk with full fat.

My mother, a therapist, warned me this might happen to Sophie. That kids often go quiet for a while in the wake of a traumatic loss. Their only way of exerting control in a world in which they clearly have none.

It's been only twenty-nine hours since Lucy's funeral, an event so improbable that pretending still works. Surreal, too, like the news vans that are idling out front of her house, waiting for a sound bite. I want to scoop Sophie up into my arms and let her cry into my shoulder, but she is not the sort of kid you just scoop up. She would know that I was doing it more for my comfort than for hers.

"Okay," I say, as if she'd actually answered me. "It's all right if you don't want to talk for now. But not forever, right? I love that voice of yours. Cheerio. Let's take the lift and go to the loo," I say in my best British impression, which used to be a surefire way to make her laugh.

"Speak like me, Mummy, Auntie Ellie!" Sophie used to demand of Lucy and me when I would come to visit, and the two of us would go back and forth, spitting out all of the British expressions we knew. Even after nearly a decade in London, and despite a husband and child whose inflections were as posh as the Queen's, Lucy's Boston accent had barely softened. She always paa'ked her caa' in Haa'va'd Yaa'd.

Today, Sophie ignores me and looks around like she's not sure whose kitchen this is. We are in the breakfast nook, with its Americana diner style, the sort you would see in a cornflakes commercial: two kids, two bowls of cereal, and two glasses of orange juice, with two parents—always two cheerful parents—rushing everyone out of their red pleather seats and off to school after their nutritionally balanced breakfast. I can picture Lucy deciding to put a booth in the corner, knowing that making your house look like a home is the first step.

"We're going to be okay, you know," I say, and run my fingers through Sophie's curly dirty-blond hair; they get caught on a knot. I remember the first time I held her, when she was less than a week old, bald and tiny, and how she would sleep with her mouth opening and closing against my arm, her dreams, no doubt, filled with glorious imaginary milk. She had seemed so fragile then, so far from a real person, that looking at her now, a fully formed little girl, beautiful and tough and exerting her power in the only way she can, makes me glow with a vicarious pride for Lucy. My best friend did a lot with her thirty-five years on this planet; her exposé on the corruption in the Chilean government should have won her a Pulitzer. But of one thing I am sure. Making this creature, this fierce mini-Lucy, is my favorite of all.

 

Julie's Bio

I was born in 1977, and spent my childhood in Rockland County, New York, where there were some happy years, more awkward ones, and multiple forays into the regrettable world of perms and spray up bangs. After high school, I attended the University of Pennsylvania, where I studied Political Science, Philosophy, and Economics. To this day, I am not sure why I picked PPE, other than the fact that I have always been a sucker for a good deal, and it sounded a lot like three for the price of one. As a result, I know very little about a lot, which tends to come in handy only at cocktail parties, and even then, maybe once every two years.

During college, I worked as a technician for a sleep deprivation study, which until becoming a writer, was the best gig I ever had. Basically, I got paid to attach electrodes to people's heads and then to keep them awake for an absurd number of hours with the well-practiced art of inane babbling. My time was well spent though: the study ultimately proved that when people don't sleep for long periods of time they get—wait for it—very, very tired.

Directly after college, I attended Harvard Law School. After my first Boston winter, though, in a quest for warmer weather, I spent the summer interning at the US Attorney's Office in Honolulu. There, I did research to help bust a fake I.D. ring, an assignment that let's just say still makes me feel a little hypocritical and guilty.

After graduation, I moved to New York to work as a litigator at a large law firm, where I spent two long winters, and many, many hours working in the MetLife building. When I realized I had not seen sunlight in almost seven hundred and thirty days, I asked to be transferred to their Los Angeles office, which upon seeing my pale and desperate face, they kindly obliged. I eventually moved to a much smaller firm, but shortly thereafter realized that maybe I wasn't cut out for the whole lawyer thing. As part of a New Year's resolution, I quit my job, downsized my life, and went to work immediately on The Opposite of Love.

I have not looked back since. Well, except to write this bio.

 

 

 

 

Book Trailer Thursday: SIMPLY FROM SCRATCH

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Book trailers are such a brave new media. Some are awful droning talking heads (you know what I mean) where the author looks like he'd rather be shoveling coal in Siberia than filming the interview. Some are almost good–but too long. And some, like Goldilocks found, are just right and manage to capture the spirit and genre of the book.

Today's trailer is a simple rendition that tells plenty in a short time. Alicia Bessette's new book, Simply From Scratch was called "Tasty" by People Magazine, and described by Library Journal as strong, richly detailed … with a truly lovable heroine ."

Launch Wednesday: EXPOSURE by Therese Fowler

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Today's launch is Exposure by Therese Walsh.  I was lucky enough to read this book before it came out, and was also lucky enough to write this blurb:

"Headlines rarely reveal the truth. Exposure does.  This nail-biting story of families caught in a collision of teen romance, the age of instant disclosure, an over-zealous prosecutor, and the media, provides an incisive stay-awake-till-you-finish exploration of hot-button issues.  I truly couldn't put it down."

EXPOSURE

by Therese Fowler

ONE

Nine hours before the police arrived, Anthony Winter stood, barefooted and wild, on the narrow front porch of the house he shared with his mother. The painted wooden planks were damp and cool beneath his feet, but he hardly noticed. In his right hand he held a fallen maple leaf up to a sun that was just breaking the horizon. In his left he held his phone. He squinted at the leaf, marveling at its deep blood-orange color, amazed and happy that nature could make such a thing from what had, only a few weeks earlier, been emerald green, and before that, deep lime, and before that, a tight, tiny bundle of a bud on a spindly limb, waving in a North Carolina spring breeze. He'd always been an observant person; he hadn't always been so romantic. It was Amelia. She brought it out in him. She brought it out in everybody.

Amelia's voice, when she answered his call, was lazy with sleep. It was a Monday, her day to sleep a little later than she could the rest of the week. Tuesday through Friday, she rose at five to get homework done before her three-mile run, which came before the 8:50 start of their Ravenswood Academy school day. At 3:00 pm was dance—ballet, modern, jazz—then voice lessons twice a week at five; often there was some play's rehearsal after that, and then, if her eyelids weren't drooping like the dingy shades in her voice teacher's living room, she might start on her homework. But more often she would sneak out of her astonishing house to spend a stolen hour with him. With Anthony. The man (she loved to call him that, now that he'd turned eighteen) with whom she intended to spend all of her future life, and then, if God was good to them, eternity to follow.

Seeing Amelia and Anthony together, you would never have guessed they were destined for anything other than a charmed future, and possibly greatness. Perhaps Amelia had, as her father was fond of saying, emerged from the womb coated in stardust. And maybe it was also true what Anthony's mother claimed: that her son had been first prize in the Cosmic lottery, and she'd won. They were, separately, well-tended and adored. Together, they were a small but powerful force of nature. Love makes that of people, sometimes.

That morning, nine hours and perhaps five minutes before his arrest, Anthony stood on the narrow front porch with a leaf and a phone in his chilly hands. Amelia was saying, "I dreamt of us," in a suggestive voice that stirred him, inside and out. He heard his mother coming downstairs, so he pulled the front door closed. Unlike the rest of his school's faculty, she knew about Amelia and him; in her way, she approved. Still, he preferred to keep his conversations private. There were certain things even an approving mother wouldn't want to hear. Certain things he absolutely did not want her to know.

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Therese Fowler is the author of Exposure, Souvenir, and Reunion. She holds an MFA from North Carolina State University, where she also taught undergraduate creative writing before leaving to write fiction full-time. Her work is published in nine languages and is sold world-wide.

 

 

What's The Name of That Book??? Making TBR Lists

GUEST POST BY KATHY CROWLEY

Hi, my name is Kathy and I am organizationally challenged. Also, I am powerless over just about everything, mostly because I can't find any of it. Yes, yes.  It's true.  I could regale you with tales of repossessed cable boxes (pay the bill everymonth? Come on…) and cars driven with long expired registrations ("Now Miss Crowley," says the officer, "which month comes first, February or August?")

But instead, I'll just cut to the chase: I can't keep track of books I want to read.  Or books I've read.

Let's take a quick look at my current system.

Books I'm Dying to Read List:

Somebody recommends a book that sounds great.  Exactly the kind of thing I'd like to read.  I WRITE  IT  DOWN.  Yes! On REAL PAPER.  Sometimes even with the author's name!!  And the ISBN!  (Well, maybe not.)  THEN I put the paper in my pants pocket.  THEN I drop tomato sauce laden tortellini on my pants at dinner. THEN I put my pants in the wash.  THEN my husband complains that there are little bits of white schmutz all over the clean laundry.  And THEN, the next time I'm looking for a book to read I think, what was that really great book…? I know I wrote it down somewhere…

Books I've Read That Mattered to Me:

"Oh yes!  That reminds me of this book I read once. I loved it! It was called… Well, it was about this woman. I think she was a nurse. No, a governess!  You should read it.  I think you'd like it."

So there. You have a sense of the scope of the problem.

Fortunately, I found a support group to help me with this problem. It's called Twitter (yay Twitter!), and it's full of really nice, caring people, most of whom I've never met but to whom I feel comfortable confessing my deepest darkest secrets.  Like my book list problem.

Laugh if you want. But let me tell you, Twitter gave me a lot of answers.  So did Facebook. And my BTM co-conspirators had a few suggestions, too (most of them polite).  So, in the interest of helping my fellow Book List Entropy sufferers, I have collected all of these suggestions, and listed them below.

Book List Preservation Method #1: "I'll have an Old Fashioned, please."

That's right: Pen and paper. Moleskine. Lines. You remember them, right?

[image error] Kathy Crowley's short stories have appeared in Ontario Review, Fish Stories, The Literary Review, New Millenium Writings and The Marlboro Review. Her stories have been short-listed for Best American Short Stories, nominated for a Pushcart Prize and anthologized. In 2006 she was awarded a Massachusetts Cultural Council Grant. She recently finished her first novel. When she's not busy preparing for her future literary fame and fortune, she provides care and feeding to her three children and works as a physician at Boston Medical Center. Kathy can be found on Twitter at @Kathy_Crowley.