Mockingbird Summer

by Lynda Rutledge

“A book, like music, is very personal. You bring yourself, your own story, to everything you read. It’s a book’s boon and bane. But it’s also its raison d’être—its reason for being—to meet you where you are. Exactly like a great piece of music.”

Everybody’s got their own story, she realized as she locked eyes with the driver of a passing car . . . and they’re swirling around me every moment of every day. All she had to do was be open to seeing them.

“But . . . that would mean that some people never do. Some really, really talented people.” “Yeah, Bug,” he said. “That’s exactly what it means.” “But that’s not right!” “No, it isn’t.” He paused, adding all but under his breath, “Plus, while I can’t imagine it, she may not really want to. And you got to have the want-to.” That puzzled Corky. “Why wouldn’t really, really talented people want to?” Mack fumed again. “Could be a million things. Maybe they’re lazy. Maybe they take their talent for granted. Or maybe they’re just plain scared.”

There’s no frigate like a book to take us lands away’—Raynelle was quoting a famous poet. And it’s true.”

Compared to the problems of the screwed-up world, he knew his problems were small. But they were his.

Because while a journalist’s job is to tell what is true, a novelist’s job is to tell what is truth, to create a world in which you’d want to live, in which everything is just, even if only in the end.