Randy Susan Meyers's Blog, page 50

The Panacea of Reading Novels (a reprise)

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What's the word for impotent worry activated by reading the morning paper? When your mind swirls with horror at people's pain and you think of how you can effect, perhaps, if you work very hard, a fingernail's length of change.

Perhaps the word should be horror-fever. Symptoms: choking on overseas flood worry, aching with news of increased world temperatures, and experiencing persistent chest pain, potentiated by guilt at inability to sacrifice entire life to help war-torn refugees.

There are a few honorable (as opposed to marathon sessions of Law & Order) ways to treat horror-fever.

1) Donate more money & volunteer more time (depending on the time and wallet-point of your life, your giving scale will tip one direction or the other.)

2) Write letters to the editor, spreading the concern you feel, allowing media-folk to acknowledge that, yes, someone is listening.

3) Realizing that every fingernail counts—and a million individual dollars add up to . . . a million dollars.

And then:

4) When the anxiety has reached emergency room levels and you're personally tapped out for time or money, but you need some psychic relief, pick up a novel. In a novel, you can live through pain and reach conclusions. Perhaps they aren't the one you've been rooting for, or maybe they are, but at the very least, like an armchair athlete watching football (is that what it's about?) you can immerse yourself in tragedy and drama for a few hours, without deserting your family and joining the Peace Corp (another option.)

My author choice of the week: Rosellen Brown. If you've not yet had the pleasure of her company, her books satisfy like a well-made home-cooked meal. All the ingredients are there, nothing is over-done or show-off fancy, and yet it provides everything you want for a perfect reading experience. Great plot. Elegant writing. Turn-the-pagability.

Go to her site and discover all her work—poetry, short stories, essays—or start with my favorites (repeatedly re-read.)

Before and After. Forget the Meryl Streep-Liam Neeson movie if you saw it (not that there's anything wrong with it) and sink into this story of a family shattering page by page. What happens to parents when a child is accused of an awful crime? What happens when the parents fall on opposite sides of how to support that child?

This book is the best example I've read of how fiction can reveal individual members of a family, POV by POV, providing the reader with exacting portraits of the ways we each live in our own reality—even when we share our home, DNA, or a bedroom.

Tender Mercies breaks your heart, and it breaks it without adornment or fancy footwork. The story of a man who severely injures his wife through an accident of bravado, told from his point of view, explores with the brightest of lights the inside of a marriage after tragedy.

We all need to find our causes, help, donate, and do as much as possible

Then don't we need to rest?

Some of us rest by safely experiencing intensity.

I do it by reading someone like Rosellen Brown.

Which author is your panacea?

Twitter Tips from Nina Badzin: Part Two

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Guest Post by Nina Badzin

(Nina is simply a genius of using social media–for those who missed Twitter Tips Part One, click here.)

Today I'm focusing on 4 tips. The overall theme is CONNECTION.

#1. TWITTER IS COMPRISED OF REAL PEOPLE: Maybe you feel left out on Twitter or feel you don't "get it." Twitter only works if you participate. Even if you're more reserved in "real life," I suggest speaking up on Twitter. If you find someone's Tweet informative or helpful, retweet it, @reply your two cents, or send a direct message with a note of appreciation. The RT is probably the best option though in the world of Twitter where spreading the word is king. (Note: You can only DM people who are following you.)

Some say they find Twitter impersonal and cumbersome. For me it's been the opposite, which is why I'd like to help you feel less overwhelmed by the site. Making lists helped enormously (more on that later), as did reaching out to new people, and reaching back to people who'd reached out to me.

#2. THE FUSS: You're still wondering what all the fuss is about. I can tell. Lists, RTs, DMs, reaching out, reaching back. UGH. Enough already, right? Please trust me–all of that "stuff" makes your Twitter experience human. But I can hear your doubts out there. Let me give you a taste of how Twitter has enriched my life since I joined exactly a year ago.

I "met" @AnneGBrown. We had instant Twitter chemistry and became critique partners–exchanging stories and chapters online. Fast forward a year: I've had five short stories accepted for publication. Even more major–Anne now has an agent and a 2-book deal with Random House. What does that mean for our partnership now? Anne has a critique partner who knew her raw work and characters before she was the next Stephenie Meyer. And I get a partner who penned the next Twilight, only better.
Twitter brought my name to the attention of Jenna Blum, one of the most generous and talented authors around. We finally met in person when she spoke in Minneapolis, and she's been unbelievably kind to me ever since–RTing  my posts and making sure I'm sticking to my 2 pages a day commitment. During the same event, I also finally met the lovely Jennifer Erickson, an early Twitter friend who wrote her own post about the power of Twitter after meeting Jenna Blum (and me) in person. Jennifer made me feel like someone other than my mother and my friends read my stories. She's been cheering me along since the days when I had 30 followers. (See #3)
As a writer with little formal training, I value Tweets including links to discussions on craft. Writing is a solitary experience–part of why I love it. But I also love the sense of camaraderie I feel with other writers and bloggers thanks to Twitter.

3. IT'S NOT ABOUT THE NUMBER OF FOLLOWERS: I'm talking about quality over quantity here. The good stuff I described above was in the works when I had a handful of followers. 40 true readers/RTers is better than 500 people who wouldn't recognize your handle and avatar if they flew off the screen. In "real" life, you connect with some people more than others. Twitter is no different. If you're reaching out and somebody isn't responding, put your focus elsewhere. There's no shortage of interesting, funny, informative Tweeps out there.

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Jennifer, ME, Jenna: "Tweethearts" (as coined by Jenna)

#4. MORE ON LISTS: You asked and I'm delivering. Lists make Twitter manageable when you start following a lot of people. (Arbitrary, let's call more than 100 "a lot.") Using lists SIMPLIFIES your Twitter experience. I promise.

Here we go. (You might want to print this.)

Log into Twitter. (Real Twitter, not Hootsuite, etc) I'm using New Twitter.
Glance at the menu that goes across the screen right under "What's Happening?"
Click "Lists."
Go to "Create a List"
Personally, I have several lists. All public. Create the list names now. For each new name, you'll have to keep going back to the home page to find the "List" button then the "Create List" option. If you want to see my lists for an example of how I divided my Tweeps, click here and look to the right.
When you're done naming the lists, go to the "Home" page. Glance right and you'll see the word "Following." Click it. Now everyone you're following is there.
See the little bullet-pointed square next to the first name? Click it. Sometimes Twitter has a delayed reaction and nothing happens. I don't know why. Yes, it's quite painful. Once the box opens or "drops down" your list names appear.
As you go down the page, put everyone on a list. I try to only assign people to one list so I'm not seeing the same Tweets twice. Sometimes it's just too hard to put a person in one category. Do whatever feels right.
Making lists creates camaraderie. For example, anyone on my "Twin Cities" list can glance at the names to see other local Tweeps.
A note about private lists: When you choose "private" instead of "public" in the "Create List" option, nobody can see your list, not even the people on it. There's a use for this. Maybe you want to put your favorite Tweeps on a private list and read that list when you're in a hurry. Just remember when your list is private the people on it don't get a chance to experience that "community" feeling.
IMPORTANT: Once you're accustomed to using lists, don't forget to click around to see all your different lists or you'll miss a lot of Tweets.
Finally, if you use Hootsuite or Tweetdeck you can arrange the screen so all your lists are next to each other, which is one of the main perks of using those sites as opposed to the actual Twitter site.

I hope this post has been helpful! Don't hesitate to ask questions. Nina

(Twitter Tips Part Three)

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Nina Badzin is a Pushcart Prize nominated short story writer, aspiring novelist, and Twitter addict. She blogs about the writing life, married life, and motherhood at http://ninabadzin.com.

The Doctor's Rules for Writing

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By Kathy Crowley

Just the other day the Wall Street Journal sent a big notice to writers, the gist of which was, "Don't quit your day job."  According to the article, I could sell not only my first and second novels, but also my fifth, twelfth and seventeenth and still have better luck covering the rent by collecting bottle deposits on my neighbors recyclables. Imagine my disappointment when I had to put the letter to my boss — written in moment of euphoria upon completing the first draft of my novel ("Dear Jeffrey, Soon I will be a rich and famous writer, and the demands on my time and creative energy may no longer permit me to show up for work…") — back in the drawer. Again.

So this is my feeling: If I have to continue having two occupations, writer and doctor, I need to find ways for each to feed the other.  I've always been interested in the connections between writing and medicine — the role of stories, the detective work, the observation — but now that I know I'll be talking low cholesterol diets and checking for hernias right through the blue-hair years, finding these connections seems more important than ever.

Today's topic: a look at some of the "golden rules" of medicine to see how they apply to writing. (I promise, by the way, that hemorrhoids will not be discussed. No sputum or fungal rashes either.)

Rule #1: "First, do no harm."

Okay, not to start off on the wrong foot, but this one just gets thrown out.  A great rule for doctoring but writing . . . well, it demands some boldness and you can't be worrying about things like doing harm.

Next.

Rule #2: "The patient is the best teacher."

Not the text books, not the CME courses, not the genius who discovered Weird Rare Disease X.  The patient.

To me this translates to: "It's the work itself that teaches best."  It's the writing. It's the thinking.  It's struggling with the characters who do not behave the way you intend, the ending that does not deliver the sense of completion you'd hoped for. It's fiddling with the words and the paragraphs and the chapters.  Workshops can be a lifesaver (sign me up), probing the minds of great writers can uncover gems, reading good stuff is a must – but it's the actual work of writing that teaches best.

Rule #3 (corollary to Rule #2): "When all else fails, go back to the patient."

When the diagnosis isn't there or the treatment doesn't work, go back and see the patient. Take it from the top, hear the story from the beginning, examine all over again.  Translation to writing: I don't think this means to start your novel or story again, but I do think this means go back to the basics.  Do you know your characters well enough?  Do you understand their motivations?  Is your plot consistent with what your characters would say and do?

Rule #4: "If you think of it, you'd better look for it."

A little explanation on this one.  A pulmonary embolus (blood clot to the lung) is a life threatening event and the early signs can be all too easy to miss.  The golden rule for doctors on pulmonary emboli: if the possibility even crosses your mind, no matter how UNLIKELY, you'd better go ahead and make sure the patient doesn't have one. That's because sometimes you are picking up on hard-to-define elements of the whole picture and, in the back of your mind, another kind of thought process is at work.

My translation for writers: Don't ignore your subconscious.  There's good stuff in there. Sometimes a flash comes along seemingly out of left field, but you sense that this is a key part of that odd puzzle of writing powerful fiction. You're probably right or, at the very least, it's worth exploring.

Rule #5 (variant of Rule #4): "Broaden your differential."

Differential diagnosis, that is.  The list of problems or diagnoses that could explain the patient's condition.  Keep trying, keep your mind open, step back and reconsider options you may have thrown out.

Here's a quote from a great and wise physician who understands the puzzle-like quality of diagnosis, a woman named Faith Fitzgerald who teaches medicine at the University of California in San Diego.  She describes an evening she once spent with a room full of Nobel Laureates.  Her observations:

"They did not have an orderly, disciplined thought process… what these people did was less linear than it was mosaic. They had an uninhibited cascade of — to my mind — unconnected ideas, all of which appeared in their minds and somehow seemed to hold equal pre-eminence. I thought initially, 'They are all crazy!' What was fascinating was that they'd all throw up these little ideas as if they were the bright bits of a mosaic, look at how they fell, see if it satisfied and if it didn't, they'd throw them up again and try again. It's the synthesis of that combined order and discipline and chaos that is the diagnostic thought process."

Similarly with writing fiction — you need the order and discipline, but you need the chaos, too.

So keep thinking, keep throwing things up there, keep trying again.

Oh, and Rule #6?

Quit smoking.

And eat your vegetables.

And get some exercise, wouldja?

P.S. For anyone who didn't know this, the character of Sherlock Holmes was based on Joseph Bell, one of Arthur Conan Doyle's instructors in medical school.

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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, On Locust Street. 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.

 

Book Trailer Thursdays: THE BIRD SISTERS

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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: The Bird Sisters by Rebecca Rasmussen launched this week by Crown.

Smart, Strong, and Bold: Women Helping Girls (reprise)

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(originally published April 19, 2010)

When someone shares the truth of her life, it is a gift. When we hear a story that speaks to our own experience, especially the rarely revealed parts, we feel less alone, and more powerful. Last Thursday, Diane Patrick told her story. She is the wife of Deval Patrick, who is both the governor of the Commonwealth of Massachusetts and the man who helped Diane Patrick recover from an abusive relationship. Speaking in front of 400+ women and girls who'd gathered to watch her receive the Strong, Smart and Bold honor from Girls Inc. of Lynn, she spoke her truth, and with that made a difference in someone's life.

Sometimes all a troubled child needs when teetering on the balance bar between drug-pregnancy-crime and school-career-esteem is one encouraging adult. The steady hand of a mentor, a teacher, librarian can pull a girl up from the abyss. Girl's Inc. exists to provide that helping hand.

Summers rescued me from a sketchy Brooklyn childhood and changed my life when The Federation of Jewish Philanthropies sent me to Camp Mikan. The director, Doris Bedell, along with women like Julia Rubnitz and Jay Bentivegnataught me women can be strong, warm, dance, discuss politics, swim like a dolphin, and live peacefully in a wondrously mixed cultural and ethnic soup.

It was only in the summer that I felt visible, able to live outside the safety of the world of books and my imagination.

Yesterday, at the annual fundraising event for Girls Inc. of Lynn, I remembered those women who held out their hands to me. As I toured the building where the girls play ball, create art and learn exactly how one says no and when one says yes, the ghosts of those women smiled down.

The powerful women sitting at my table beamed as Stephanie Hardy received the Lucille Miller Wright scholarship for academic achievement, crying along with Stephanie as she described the life she'd escaped and her plan to give back to her community when she'd finished her education.

All the recipients of the Girl Hero Scholarship shared that spirit. Like Stephanie, Jacklyn Crowley, Phumana Phim, and Ivanna Solano all want to hold out the same helping hand that pulled them up.

Love for these girls radiated throughout the room. Pride poured out as we listened to Executive Director Patricia Driscoll describe the program offered by her incredible agency, which recently moved from a shabby building held together by Band-Aids to a bright clean renovated space—a space worthy of the girls and staff. A space made real by the hard work of the women sitting in that room.

I thank Stacy Meyers Ames for bringing me to this event (and for devoting so much effort helping girls grow up whole.) I thank all the women at our table for the hands they hold out to these girls. And I thank First Lady Diane Patrick for opening up to all the girls and women in that room. Revealing a private truth to provide hope for others, that is strong, smart and bold.

A Book to Remember: ICE BOUND (a reprise post)

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In the continuous stream of NPR that is my life, I learned that Jerri Nielson died of breast cancer. Dr. Nielson wrote a book I've read more than once, and that has now become the final solidification of my vow not to lend out well-loved books. (Note: since writing this post, I have bought another copy.)

Her book, Ice Bound a Doctor's Incredible Battle For Survival at the South Pole, co-written with Maryanne Vollers, fit every criteria I have for a great read: engrossing plot (which I remember in more detail than usual, considering I read it years and years ago) writing which flows (just read the first page on Amazon,) gotta-find-outness (for goodness sake, she discovers she has breast cancer while in Antarctica,) and all sorts of juicy subplots (family troubles, check; intriguing setting which is a story in itself, check; side characters who you deeply care about, check; heroics large and small, check, check, check.

Nielson was hired for one year at the Amundsen-Scott South Pole Station on Antarctica, a place where a year brings one sunrise and one sunset. It remains night for the entire winter; you can't leave during this weather.  "Winterover" crews are there for the duration, dependent only on each other.

Saying it's cold is like saying ants are small.

Nielsen must perform a biopsy on herself after finding a lump in her breast. And that is just the beginning of this amazing tale of medical courage and adventure. I've already sent for two copies from Amazon—one for me, and one for lending. I know no better way to honor this woman, than by re-reading her memoir.

The best of authors become part of the book family who whom keep you going. They offer solace, fun, interest, company, adventure, insight, escape, and flashes of brilliance. Dr. Jerri Nielson felt like one of those friends. Rest in peace, Jerri.

(originally published in  2009)

Facebook Lurker or Facebook User: Who Are You?

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Guest Post by Nina Badzin

Aren't all members of Facebook, in some respect, lurkers and voyeurs? Yes, but some people are less noble about it than others.

A loose definition of the official Facebook Lurker: one who spends time on Facebook, but avoids making his/her presence known with comments or status updates.  TO GO ONE STEP FURTHER, the official Facebook Lurker is: a person WITH a Facebook account who blatantly mocks Facebook Users for posting information on Facebook, but acts as if he/she is never actually on the site.

So what's the issue? Why do Facebook Lurkers need my defense? Here's why: there is only one kind of person permitted to mock Facebook Users, and that is a person WITHOUT a Facebook account.  (Like my husband, who exercises that privilege often).

Some say the Lurkers (especially the ones who make fun of Users) should be forced to participate or sign off for good. Lucky for you Lurkers, I'm here to defend your equal rights to the magical site. But how do you know if you're an innocent, infrequent User or a full-fledged Lurker?

If half of the statements below match your Facebooking behavior, then your right to secretly view everyone's information could be revoked.

Although you never upload pictures, you're quick to check for new shots of your ex. You also subconsciously or purposely check for anyone who has gained weight or lost all their hair since high school/college/[fill in the blank].
You think, "obnoxious braggart" about anyone who uploads pictures from an obviously expensive vacation, but you look at those pictures anyway. Sometimes you look twice. (see #1)
You find status updates extremely annoying. A part of you even hates people who write them. And yet . . . you scroll through your "friends" updates when you're standing in line. Or when you're bored at work. Or when your kids are busy (and by busy, I mean asking you to play Candyland for the 8th time in two hours).
You'll never write a comment on somebody's wall unless it's your real friend's birthday. And even then you come up something like, "Can you believe I'm writing on your Facebook wall?!?!? Wow, look at me on Facebook!"
Your lack of sharing on Facebook has become a genuine source of pride. You're known to say things like, "I'm NEVER on Facebook," your tone implying that people who write stuff on Facebook are losers and freaks with too much time on their hands. Except you seem to know what people from every walk of your current and former life ate for dinner the previous night and what the bridesmaids wore at your old math tutor's second wedding.
You don't comment on pictures or updates or "like" them because then people would KNOW you're on Facebook. And you like your privacy. You question why nobody else values privacy anymore. You miss 1999. And you think this whole Facebook thing is kind of stupid.
BUT, there you are again, logged into Facebook. In fact, you were lurking there when you came upon this blog post.

Ultimately, if Users protected their privacy the way Lurkers do, there would be NOTHING to DO on Facebook.  Nada. Zero. Zilch.

Nevertheless, I'd like all the Users out there to cut the Lurkers some slack. (Alas, the part where I defend the Lurkers.) If everyone filled up the site like we Users do (yes, like most writers with a blog, I'm quite a User), we'd ALL be overwhelmed with information. In other words, nobody would see our shameless self-promotion. Then we'd have to figure out how to use Digg or StumbleUpon. And that would kill me–I mean us.

It takes all kinds to make the Facebook world go 'round. I, for one, appreciate Facebook Lurkers, and I will defend your honor until I overhear one of you making fun of ME.

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Nina Badzin is a Pushcart Prize nominated short story writer, aspiring novelist, and Twitter addict. She blogs about the writing life, married life, and motherhood at http://ninabadzin.com

First Friday Pages: AMARYLLISS IN BLUEBERRY

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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.

Amaryllis in Blueberry explores the complexity of human relationships set against an unforgettable backdrop. Told through the haunting voices of Dick and Seena Slepy and their four daughters, Christina Meldrum's soulful novel weaves together the past and the present of a family harmed—and healed—by buried secrets.

"Completely compelling."

—Kristin Hannah, New York Times bestselling author

"Rich and evocative."

—Meg Waite Clayton, author of the national bestseller, The Wednesday Sisters

Amaryliss in Blueberry

by

The End

West Africa

Dick is dead. Seena knows this, of course: her husband is dead. Yet she keeps expecting him to barrel in, his enormous, gangling self plodding along, a spectacle unaware that he is one. Was one, she thinks. Was one. Still, she finds herself waiting for him to call out, make some pointless point, make it clear to everyone that he just doesn't get it. She anticipates the annoyance she so often would feel around him. She almost longs for it—this longing he'd disappear, shut up, let her be. Because he has disappeared, shut up, let her be. He is dust from dust. Ashes from ashes. As dead as a doornail.

And she has the devil to pay.

Like Dick would say, "The devil take the hindmost."

Dick's moved on, and she's left to pay. Alone.

Because he did get it, more than she did—she knows this. But the recognition came only after the trigger was pulled, so to speak, after the poison went flying, when it pierced his pale chest, when it was long past too late. Now she understands she was the spectacle unaware: she was the fool.

And she wonders, How can you live with someone for years—know the softening ring around his still-thin waist, the changed texture of his graying stubble, the scent in the hollow beneath his Adam's apple—and see only your imagination reflected?

Seena is on trial in a village in West Africa, in a "customary court." The courthouse is the schoolhouse, transformed. The village elders—one a witch doctor, one a queen—are her accusers, judge and jury. She was indignant when she learned this, sure it couldn't be. She's an American, she'd said. She's entitled to due process. "These customary courts, they must be illegal. There are laws—aren't there?—even here, even in this hell?"

But she's a murderer, the elders said: she's entitled to nothing. "Our courts are based on our traditions, which are different from yours. Americans think they alone make laws, but we

have our own rule."

They have their own rule.

"Christina Slepy?" the witch doctor, this so called "wise man," says. He speaks to Seena, and watches her. Every person in the crowded room watches her; she feels this. And she knows if she were to look up at them, she would see only the whites of their eyes, and perhaps a shock of color from clothes that now seem mocking. They've told her the reasons women kill, and they've told her no matter her reason, she had no right. Still, they demand to know her reason, and she wonders which to choose. Which would they believe, or not? Which would solicit less loathing?

Even as she ponders these questions, she is aware she has no idea what they would believe, or not—no idea of the seed of their loathing, the fruit of their pity, whether they ever would feel pity for her. This is a world of rules turned inside out, a world where all she took for granted has been stripped away. She is a carcass, ripped clean of flesh. A skeleton of holes. No longer can her mind set her apart, give her that private space where the real world could seem a dream. No longer can she fill her holes with assumptions: that rationality wins in the end, that humans have rights, that white humans have rights. She never appreciated this distinction before—appreciated that she made this distinction. She never thought of herself as racist. Dick was a racist, she knew. Not a malicious racist. A do-good kind of racist. A feel-sorry-for kind of racist. A thank-God-I'm-white kind of racist: there but for the grace of God go I. But not her. Not her. How could she be racist, given the only man she'd ever loved?

Yet she set foot in this dusty African world never believing its dust and rules would apply to her, her children, her mind. But why wouldn't they apply? Because she's white, she thought, that's why. Only, she didn't really think this, she knew this. It was in her flesh—what made her feel whole. She never had to think it; it just was. She never had to come to terms with being racist; she just was. As she sits here condemned, she knows this. And she knows she should be condemned, if for this reason alone—especially given her child of light.

"Do you have anything to say?" asks the elder, who is not even old. He is forty perhaps. At max. And Seena thinks, He is neither wise nor old, yet he has the power of Zeus, here. He and the queen of this village—Avone—are the gods of this universe, painting this African sky. Painting me, the African version of Clytemnestra.

"What don't I have to say?" she would like to say. "You want me to admit guilt? I'll admit it. I came here having little respect for your beliefs and laws and I flouted them willingly. You want me to say I hated my husband—that I wanted him dead so I could be free to love my lover? I'll say it. You want me to tell you I committed adultery and squandered the welfare of my children for the sake of lust while I spit in God's face. It's all true."

"No," she says. "I have nothing to say."

[image error]Christina Meldrum received her Bachelor of Arts in religious studies and political science from the University of Michigan. After working in grassroots development in Africa, she earned her Juris Doctor from Harvard Law School. She interned with the International Commission of Jurists in Geneva, Switzerland, and worked as a litigator for the law firm of Shearman & Sterling. She currently lives in the San Francisco Bay Area with her family and is on the advisory board of WOW, an organization that helps grow women-led businesses in West Africa.

First Friday Pages: AMARYLISS IN BLUEBERRY

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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.

Amaryllis in Blueberry explores the complexity of human relationships set against an unforgettable backdrop. Told through the haunting voices of Dick and Seena Slepy and their four daughters, Christina Meldrum's soulful novel weaves together the past and the present of a family harmed—and healed—by buried secrets.

"Completely compelling."

—Kristin Hannah, New York Times bestselling author

"Rich and evocative."

—Meg Waite Clayton, author of the national bestseller, The Wednesday Sisters

Amaryliss in Blueberry

by

The End

West Africa

Dick is dead. Seena knows this, of course: her husband is dead. Yet she keeps expecting him to barrel in, his enormous, gangling self plodding along, a spectacle unaware that he is one. Was one, she thinks. Was one. Still, she finds herself waiting for him to call out, make some pointless point, make it clear to everyone that he just doesn't get it. She anticipates the annoyance she so often would feel around him. She almost longs for it—this longing he'd disappear, shut up, let her be. Because he has disappeared, shut up, let her be. He is dust from dust. Ashes from ashes. As dead as a doornail.

And she has the devil to pay.

Like Dick would say, "The devil take the hindmost."

Dick's moved on, and she's left to pay. Alone.

Because he did get it, more than she did—she knows this. But the recognition came only after the trigger was pulled, so to speak, after the poison went flying, when it pierced his pale chest, when it was long past too late. Now she understands she was the spectacle unaware: she was the fool.

And she wonders, How can you live with someone for years—know the softening ring around his still-thin waist, the changed texture of his graying stubble, the scent in the hollow beneath his Adam's apple—and see only your imagination reflected?

Seena is on trial in a village in West Africa, in a "customary court." The courthouse is the schoolhouse, transformed. The village elders—one a witch doctor, one a queen—are her accusers, judge and jury. She was indignant when she learned this, sure it couldn't be. She's an American, she'd said. She's entitled to due process. "These customary courts, they must be illegal. There are laws—aren't there?—even here, even in this hell?"

But she's a murderer, the elders said: she's entitled to nothing. "Our courts are based on our traditions, which are different from yours. Americans think they alone make laws, but we

have our own rule."

They have their own rule.

"Christina Slepy?" the witch doctor, this so called "wise man," says. He speaks to Seena, and watches her. Every person in the crowded room watches her; she feels this. And she knows if she were to look up at them, she would see only the whites of their eyes, and perhaps a shock of color from clothes that now seem mocking. They've told her the reasons women kill, and they've told her no matter her reason, she had no right. Still, they demand to know her reason, and she wonders which to choose. Which would they believe, or not? Which would solicit less loathing?

Even as she ponders these questions, she is aware she has no idea what they would believe, or not—no idea of the seed of their loathing, the fruit of their pity, whether they ever would feel pity for her. This is a world of rules turned inside out, a world where all she took for granted has been stripped away. She is a carcass, ripped clean of flesh. A skeleton of holes. No longer can her mind set her apart, give her that private space where the real world could seem a dream. No longer can she fill her holes with assumptions: that rationality wins in the end, that humans have rights, that white humans have rights. She never appreciated this distinction before—appreciated that she made this distinction. She never thought of herself as racist. Dick was a racist, she knew. Not a malicious racist. A do-good kind of racist. A feel-sorry-for kind of racist. A thank-God-I'm-white kind of racist: there but for the grace of God go I. But not her. Not her. How could she be racist, given the only man she'd ever loved?

Yet she set foot in this dusty African world never believing its dust and rules would apply to her, her children, her mind. But why wouldn't they apply? Because she's white, she thought, that's why. Only, she didn't really think this, she knew this. It was in her flesh—what made her feel whole. She never had to think it; it just was. She never had to come to terms with being racist; she just was. As she sits here condemned, she knows this. And she knows she should be condemned, if for this reason alone—especially given her child of light.

"Do you have anything to say?" asks the elder, who is not even old. He is forty perhaps. At max. And Seena thinks, He is neither wise nor old, yet he has the power of Zeus, here. He and the queen of this village—Avone—are the gods of this universe, painting this African sky. Painting me, the African version of Clytemnestra.

"What don't I have to say?" she would like to say. "You want me to admit guilt? I'll admit it. I came here having little respect for your beliefs and laws and I flouted them willingly. You want me to say I hated my husband—that I wanted him dead so I could be free to love my lover? I'll say it. You want me to tell you I committed adultery and squandered the welfare of my children for the sake of lust while I spit in God's face. It's all true."

"No," she says. "I have nothing to say."

[image error]Christina Meldrum received her Bachelor of Arts in religious studies and political science from the University of Michigan. After working in grassroots development in Africa, she earned her Juris Doctor from Harvard Law School. She interned with the International Commission of Jurists in Geneva, Switzerland, and worked as a litigator for the law firm of Shearman & Sterling. She currently lives in the San Francisco Bay Area with her family and is on the advisory board of WOW, an organization that helps grow women-led businesses in West Africa.

Book Trailer Thursday: THE QUICKENING

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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: The Quickening by Michelle Hoover

"A finely-crafted debut novel….Hoover offers us vivid, fascinating glimpses of each character's life as they alternately relate their shared experiences and personal history. The novel grows richer with each page as Hoover's quiet lyricism gradually asserts itself. We come to know [the main characters] intimately, to understand their hopes and the dark specters that keep them up at night. We come to know their husbands and families. Hoover's prose throughout is spare and free of ornamentation, much like her characters. There are always important things happening beneath the surface, and Hoover has a gift for foreshadowing events and building dramatic tension. There is no Oprah-style redemption here and no easy reconciliation. Hoover shows us her two characters coping with the pain of loss but finding no simple answers. The novel's ending is powerfully fueled by a sense of resignation." — Chuck Leddy, The Boston Globe

Michelle Hoover teaches writing at Boston University and Grub Street. She has published fiction in Confrontation, The Massachusetts Review, Prairie Schooner, and Best New American Voices, among others. She has been a Bread Loaf Writer's Conference scholar, the Philip Roth Writer-in-Residence at Bucknell University, a MacDowell fellow, a Pushcart Prize nominee, and in 2005 the winner of the PEN/New England Discovery Award for Fiction. Her first book, The Quickening, was shortlisted for the Center for Fiction's Flaherty-Dunnan First Novel Prize.

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