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Second helpings

It’s not often that I re-read a book – there are too many great books out there and so little time – but I am taking another look at my favorite read from 2007, The Thirteenth Tale, for a book club I am in.

It’s amazing to me how much I don’t remember about the book that was my all-out favorite three years ago, and that I am enjoying as much the second time as I did the first, perhaps more so, though I don’t think I could explain why. I suppose you could make the argument that you don’t expect to get everything out of one look at a really great painting. I mean, if you had the chance to see the Mona Lisa a second time, wouldn’t you take it?

How about you? Any books out there that you’ve read more than once? And what did you discover in the second and third readings? Do tell. . .

And so it begins. . .






When I wrote The Shape of Mercy, a number of people asked me if I went to Massachusetts for my research. Some seemed surprised when I said I did not. The truth is, the Salem in my story does not exist anymore. A friend of mine who lives in nearby Peabody told me the place where the executions took place is now home to apartment buildings. Colonial Salem village exists only in history books and the imagination. I happen to have those!

But the book I will be writing over the next few months, A Sound Among the Trees, which will have as its historical thread a Civil War drama, is different. It will take place in a fictitious Fredericksburg house that witnessed the crucible that was the War Between the States. And since I am creating a house that technically still stands, I felt the pull to go to Fredericksburg to see and feel the lay of the land. I am grateful to my friends Sarah and Jeff who let me stay with them and took me to so many battlegrounds and museums. The echoes of those sad four years of American history are everywhere. Everywhere still. Here are few images.

Top photo is a replica cannon on Marye’s Heights overlooking Fredericksburg. A horrific battle was fought here in mid-December 1862. The Confederates technically won this one, but the loss of life on both sides was chilling.

Second photo: On a day trip to Richmond, Sarah and I toured the Museum of the Confederacy and Jefferson Davis’s White House. Above his desk, Davis had portrait of George Washington, his hero. A rebel like himself, he thought, who also took up a cause that sadly meant taking up arms. Davis believed he was like Washington in this respect, a solider of freedom. I find this curious – that he would so desire freedom that he would dissolve the Union and yet would keep a culture of people chained to slavery, denying them the very thing he was ready to die for. . .

Third photo: Looking up Marye’s Heights from what had been the Union Line. Union soldiers tried to take the Heights and were unsuccessful. The field was covered with Union casualties, prompting one Confederate general to say, “A chicken could not live on that field.”

Fourth photo: Confederate women sewed uniforms like this one in their parlors. Their parlors also became hospitals. And their yards, burial grounds.

Last photo: Lovely Washington Street in current day Fredericksburg reminds us that not everything of beauty in Fredericksburg was obliterated. I am thinking of crafting my fictional house like this one. . . .

On Friday, thoughts on C. S. Lewis. See you then. . .

Cloudy with periods of sun

It’s been a tough week on the homefront.

I did not know Chelsea King, the 17-year-old student whose life was snatched away from her as she jogged on a peaceful nature trail, but I feel like I do. She attended the high school I went to when I was 17; the same high school my 17-year-old son now attends. My son and Chelsea were on the track team together, ran the same event – the long jump – and the few times I saw this girl, she was dashing across a runway, gaining momentum, flying high, arms outstretched, legs extended for maximum distance. That’s what long jumpers do; they reach well past what the rest of us could do if we decided to see just how far we could go.

It doesn’t make any sense – what happened to this young girl. And sense is something we look for when our world is rocked. An answer would help, we think, but I wonder if there really is an answer we could understand. The question of Why is huge, the answer must also be huge; too big an answer to adequately satisfy, I think. A genius could probably provide me with the answer of what string theory is but it doesn’t mean I would understand the answer. I would still most likely walk away mystified and unsatisfied that now it all makes sense.

Yesterday the remains of a teenager missing for a year were found a few miles away from Chelsea’s last run. The paper says police believe the two events are unrelated. And I know what they mean, but of course they are related. Not to the offender perhaps, and only perhaps, but we as a community relate them. They both make our hearts break.

What we do know for sure is life is fragile. Aside from the fact that some people are desperately evil, life is fragile. And you only have the one life. Each day we are given to live out our fragile lives, we are building the legacy by which we will be remembered. We can’t always determine the scope and span of that legacy, but it is wholly our privilege to design it. No one can rob that from us. They can shorten it, but they cannot steal it.

In the sadness, there is that.

A story in nutshells

When I travel, I take a new book with me. It’s a quirky thing with me. My great fear is that I will be on a plane thirty thousand feet above the nearest bookstore and I will finish a book and still have two hours of flying time ahead of me. Yikes. And since I’ve not made the financial or emotional leap to buy a Kindle, I’d be stuck reading the inflight magazine or, gasp, the the aircraft safety card.

Torture.

So I brought Elizabeth Strout’s Olive Kitteridge with me on my recent research trip to Virginia (more on that later) and read it during the flights it took to get there and back. Anything that wins a Pulitzer always gets my attention, and since I had heard this novel was constructed in episodic fashion (very different from your usual, linear this-happened-and-then this-happened fashion) I was eager to read it.

I have to say I was mesmerized by Strout’s skill as a storyteller, especially the way she wove in varied lives with the singular life of Olive Kitteridge, a tall, opinionated woman who only appears to have nothing but rough edges. There was no goal to reach or quest to fulfill; rather the story was a collection of stories teetering on the cusp of Olive’s life, sometimes spilling into it, sometimes spilling out of it. Based on the construction and the staggering subtlety of Strout’s prose, I can see why it wowed the Pulitzer committee.

And yet it is a book I cannot recommend. I don’t consider myself prudish or overly modest but I was embarrassed more than once by the language. There were times, sitting on that plane with a big guy next to me (who completely commandeered our shared armrest) where I had to fold the pages in as close as I could and still be able to read as I tiptoed, cringing, over pages peppered with the f-word. I don’t use profanity myself in my speech or writing, and I do understand that it plays a part in relevancy in some literature, but this was over the top for me. The characters who talked this way were certainly the kind of characters who would talk this way – I get that. But I don’t want to get it. Honestly, I don’t.

There are some things out there that I know are out there but I just don’t want to get them. This was an interesting, cleverly constructed book. And I wish I could say you should read it.

But I can’t.

And that just makes me kind of sad.

Photo Phriday


My kind of snow. . . .

The trees are bridal brilliant in my yard but the white stuff isn’t cold, it smells a little like heaven might and the bees are lovin’ it. The orange trees are in bloom!

I’ll be out next Monday on a research trip which I will tell you all about next Friday. Until then, here’s a link to an interview I did with Courtney Walsh today. Second part is up tomorrow. . .

Have a great weekend. . .

Mysterious Jane

Imagine you are fifteen, you are the daughter of a duke, the year is 1553 and the king – who is the same age as you – has died and named you his successor.

You’ve bowed to the wishes of your parents all your life, even marrying a man you do not love, and though you are fourth in line to the throne, you’ve never dreamed you’d be in a position to sit on it. The young king scratched out a will on his death bed, a will Parliament never saw. And neither did you. Only powerful men on the king’ s council saw it. These were the same men who for three days didn’t tell England their king was dead, who worked secretly on the details of getting you on the throne, and who bypassed two princesses and even your own mother to do it.

You are the queen they want because you are young and Protestant and able to bear children, a boy specifically. They think you will name the man you married King simply because they ask it of you. They think because you are young and female and obedient that you will do this. They think they can rule through you. Despite you. Because why else would they go to all this trouble?

Lady Jane Grey, whose story I weave through my upcoming release Lady in Waiting, is this very same young woman. And the photo of the above painting is maybe, perhaps, what she looked like. Truth is, no one is really sure. Hers was a story so tragic and compelling I had to find a way to layer it into a present day novel. I’ve long been intrigued by her story, and I naively figured this one would be an easy one to write. Instead, this book has challenged me on all kinds of levels; I’ve never felt so unequal to the task as I have felt with this book. I have been stretched as a wordsmith and storyteller, but all the writing and rewriting and rewriting and rewriting will be worth the effort in the end. I am counting on it. I am finally starting to feel confident that it’s going to be a story that people will like.

I’ll keep whetting your appetite as the months tick by. We’re looking at a September release for Lady in Waiting. In the meantime, I am setting my sights on Virginia and the echoes of the Civil War. Should be an interesting ride. . .

Ta da!

Here it is! The cover for my Fall 2010 release! I will tell you more about it on Monday, but for today, just enjoy!

Just keeping it real

Here is the blog post I promised on Friday to deliver on Monday knowing full well it is now Wednesday. I boasted last week that I’d share this week why I don’t like the new girl on “24,” but I did feel like I owed her a viewing of the episode that aired Monday, which I just watched on Hulu today. My impressions of her character haven’t changed – I still have no respect for her, and I find myself wanting to sit down with a cuppa with the script writers and ask them how much reality do they expect we viewers can suspend in order to participate in the fictive world that is Fox’s “24?”

I am speaking of Dana the Data Analyst. If you don’t watch the show – and I’ve only just started watching it the last two seasons because my teenage son enjoys it and I enjoy being a part of what he enjoys – let me describe her. She works at the Counter Terrorism Unit, or CTU, which is a made-up, high octane intel arm of the government. They know everything, they see everything, they have a satellite feed everywhere, can change a red light to green on any street corner in America, and can create a past for a someone’s cover in nanoseconds. They have to be fast and all-knowing because they have to save the world three times in the span of twenty-four hours.

Dana, the new pretty computer nerd, is NOT a federal agent, not a spy, not a female version of James Bond. She has the proverbial desk job in a underground compound with no windows, yet wears a black cocktail dress, diamond studs in her ears, and continually wears her long blond hair off to the side like she’s a contestant on America’s Next Top Model.

On a show that is already hard to embrace as real, did they really have to put her in a cocktail dress?

Then we find out, by the entrance of Jerk From The Past, that she is not really Dana. She is Jenny. This guy is bad news. He knows her past. He knows she’s an ex-con. That she was an accessory to murder. He calls her on her cell phone while she’s on duty at the CTU and tells her he’s not only found out where she is, but he’s threatening to spill her past to her fiance, a CTU field agent, as well as to her new employer, the mind-numbing, we-know-everything CTU. He shows up in the CTU parking lot with snarky threats, asks for the keys to her apartment because he needs a favor and a place to stay. Just for the night.

And what does she do? She gives him the keys.

Two things that just make the storyteller in me writhe. Please. No dumb blonds. No dumb protagonists period. None! Ever again. If you want a character to end up in a tight spot, don’t make her stupid. Make her fight to stay out of the tight spot but she ends up there anyway. It’s like the really bad scary movie about a psycho ax murderer on the loose, and a young woman alone in a house in the same vicinity hears a strange noise at midnight, decides to go outside with a flashlight and check it out. In her nightgown. And it’s raining. Puh-lease. Just don’t do that.

Second, it’s just not believable that Dana the model could fool the Fact-Checkers at CTU. If she stole someone’s identity to become Dana so that she could get the job at CTU, then the script-writers need to have some respect for the viewers and reveal that detail way up front. Every scene that we’re expected to believe – while not knowing how in the world the Great and Powerful CTU doesn’t know Dana the Data Analyst is really Jenny the Excon – suffers. If this was a book I’d stop reading.

The basic rule of storytelling is this. The characters have to be believable or we won’t care what happens to them. We have to empathize with them or we won’t care what happens to them. It’s pretty simple.

I am hoping there will be some significant character development for Dana in the weeks to come. If there isn’t, expect more Monday posts on Wednesday.

Coming up Friday, an interview with one of my favorite people, the wise and wonderful Susie Larson. See you then. . .

A roaring storm gathers no moth

Seriously, this moth sought refuge from the great SoCal Soak this week outside our front door, quietly unfazed by the raging winds and torrents of wet stuff.

As big as my palm when its wings rested open, this beauty of a bug was surely too outlandishly lovely to be a local insect. He floated away before I could alert the authorities that something from Madagascar had attached itself to my stucco.

And with that I tell you that that is all I have to say today. I am inviting you to take a look at the interview of me on TitleTrakk where all my wisdom for the week happens to be.

On Monday, however, when my wisdom stores are replenished, I shall tell you why I do not respect the new girl on ’24.’

Riveting stuff ahead. See you after the weekend.

A poem to twenty pounds

Twenty pounds of this and that

Clinging to me as body fat

For fifteen years you’ve hung around

For fifteen years I haven’t found

A way to make you disappear

You like me too much, that’s pretty clear

Shall we just get one thing straight?

Before we share another plate?

You came without a proper invite

Stayed far too long and made everything too tight

That’s just bad manners, in very poor taste

No pun intended, just look at my waist

You’ve loitered and lingered wherever you’ve wanted

Your penchant for persistence is annoyingly undaunted

With Slimfast shakes and Special K

I’ve tried to make you go away

But you insist I completely forsake

Chips and cheese and chocolate cake

Who said you could make all the laws?

On what can and cannot pass through my jaws?

You’ll make no friends behaving like that

No one will like you, you’ll be lonely fat

Might I offer a bit of advice?

A word or two on how to be nice?

Have a little self respect

Do not remain an unwanted guest

For pity’s sake, get a clue

I am just not that into you