Lars Brownworth, author of Lost to the West: The Forgotten Byzantine Empire That Rescued Western Civilization, says,

          “We often forget that history is, at heart, a collection of stories, not a succession of dates or broad movements.
           I find history much more engaging if told as the tale of individuals.”

                                           (Writer’s Digest October 2009 interview with Jordan E. Rosenfeld)

  
Harriet Jacobs

I have always been fascinated by hidden stories, those narratives that have often been ignored, forgotten, or undiscovered.  How thankful I am that one day I leafed through a musty, old book and found the tale of a young slave girl who carried hollyhock seeds in her pocket. PRISCILLA AND THE HOLLYHOCKS shares that girl’s story with readers who might otherwise never have heard of Priscilla, whose courage and optimism inspire us.

Harriet Jacobs (1813-1897) lived in a similar time period. Her grueling life as a slave was not unusual, but the fact that she was able to tell her story in her own way was extraordinary.  When Incidents in the Life of a Slave Girl, Written by Herself was published in 1861, Jacobs used a pseudonym and disguised names of people and places of whom she wrote (“to protect the guilty”). At the time Incidents came out, Jacobs was free, an active abolitionist in the North.  Yet her story was lost over the years until an historian named Dr. Jean Fagan Yellin proved Jacob’s authorship of Incidents and rewrote the former slave and writer into American history.

Jacobs’ story is harrowing, but what probably touched me most when I recently saw Lydia Diamond’s play, “Harriet Jacobs” in an Underground Railway Theatre production was learning the extreme measure Harriet took to be free. She had tried many things in order to be free of her owner’s sexual advances. Finally, Harriet escaped to live for seven years in a crawl space above the home of her grandmother, a freed slave. Imagine seven years when Harriet’s world was nine feet long, seven feet wide, three feet tall at the highest part of a sloping ceiling. She could only come out at night to stretch herself occasionally.

Why would anyone remain in such tight conditions? 1) That tiny space was better than the constant harassment she endured from the man who owned her, and 2) from there she could see her two small children go about their everyday lives.

In Lydia Diamond ‘s play, Harriet shares shocking stories of slave life, then says to the audience, “You’ve heard about that, or at least something like it. This is not what I wish to tell you.” As Megan Sandbereg-Zakian writes in the playbill, “Diamond’s text, like Jacobs’, asks us to consider all the ways we don’t understand history, all the ways we have become comfortable with one kind of narrative of slavery, and by extension, with one kind of narrative about race, class, money, power, and privilege.”

History can be told from myriad viewpoints. One of the writer’s tasks is to find the story within a story that has not yet been told, or to tell the familiar from a new perspective. As I work on several historical picture books and a novel set in 1838, I hope I am able to dig deeply enough to say of the familiar story, “This is not what I wish to tell you.”  And then, to tell readers the story in a way that makes them think, reevaluate what they thought they knew, and open themselves to alternate ways of understanding what happened in the past.

When I enter a library or bookstore, my pulse slows. Put me in a place where there are large numbers of books, and a big grin spreads across my face. When I’ve been fortunate enough to attend a large event with a convention center full of book displays like Book Expo of America or the American Library Association meeting, I’ve felt downright greedy. New novels! The most recently published children’s books! Displays by all major publishers! Free books!

Recently, I encountered not a convention hall full of books, but a dining room with all the surfaces covered with books written by Boston-related authors.  I wasn’t there to chat up editors, meet publishing agents or grab freebies, but to meet with others on the Boston Authors Club judging committee. The table, heater, piano and window seat’s offerings of books were all submissions for the annual awards that Boston Authors Club gives, and I am one of many who will read through this enormous pile of books in order to decide who will receive various awards in June.

I came away with a heavy pile of beautiful, newly published books to read in the next few weeks before our  committee meets again to discuss what we have read, and take home another pile of reading. Unlike the other ways I read (for pleasure and escape; to make comments on writer friends’ manuscripts; as research into my own writing projects), reading as a judge requires a different mindset.

As with any book, the first pages must draw me in with a premise that keeps me glued to the story (fiction) or eager to learn more (non-fiction). I am thinking about plot, use of language, accessibility to readers, originality, plus that “special something” that makes a book great and not just “good.” The Boston area is the most literary-minded place I have ever lived. The wealth of authors who have lived here in the past and who currently live nearby joins with some great bookstores, 27 colleges in the city and 29 just outside Boston, and a large number of avid readers who love to discuss literature.

So for the next few months, I will be regularly grabbing a pile of new books to read and evaluate. Next May, I’ll share the results of all of our reading, once the awards are given.

"Neat" and "messy" are value judgments. As long as each person has a system that works for them (neat, messy or in-between, however one defines those categories), gets their work done, and stays creative, I don't think it matters which style we are or how we define our working space. Now, back to work!

Today I heard a gorgeous, affecting piece of music on the radio that introduced me to a poem by Pablo Neruda. The music by Morten Lauridsen got my attention, but as a choral group called 'Polyphony' performed "Sonnet of the Night" in Spanish, I was touched by the poet's use of language.

Here is a translation of the sonnet:

When I die, I want your hands upon my eyes;
I want the light and the wheat of your beloved hands
to pass their freshness over me one more time:
I want to feel the gentleness that changed my destiny.

I want you to live while I wait for you, asleep,
I want your ears to still hear the wind,
I want you to smell the scent of the sea we both loved,
and to continue walking on the sand we walked on.

I want all that I love to keep on living,
and you whom I loved and sang above all things
to keep flowering into full bloom.

so that you can touch all that my love provides you,
so that my shadow may pass over your hair,
so that all may know the reason for my song.

Want to listen to the group sing this poem? This YouTube version has a slideshow with it.

Until I recently participated in a night hike, I hadn’t realized how dependent I am on my sight rather than equally relying on all five senses. Our naturalist leader announced that in order to see the wild creatures and best appreciate a fall evening in the woods, we wouldn’t use a flashlight unless absolutely necessary. He sought to put the younger members of our group at ease. “There is nothing wild in these woods that can hurt you.” (Bears and coyotes live farther north.)

I had no fear of any living creature in the night woods, but as we tromped off into the darkness of trees and bushes with no moon to light our way, I was nervous because I could not see well. We were asked to walk in silence, so the only noise was of our feet crunching through autumn leaves on the path.

Our early trail involved large steps cut into a hill and marked by railroad ties; the fifteen of us proceeded as a human chain with our right hands on the shoulders of the person in front of us. All my non-seeing senses were on high alert as I tried to guess when there was a step/drop in elevation by the stumbling of the person in front of me. I was relieved when we came to a flat trail with dense forest on either side.

Fortunately, two of the people in front of me wore shoes with reflectors, so even in the dark, I could track their steps and prepare myself as we walked along a trail with occasional large roots and rocks. (Again, when someone in front of me stumbled, I prepared myself.) Our naturalist shared information about animals, woods, night skies, sounds. We stopped and he handed out Wintergreen Lifesavers. In pairs, we chewed them with out mouths open so that we could see sparks fly inside our partner’s mouths. (That’s because of triboluminescence—check it out!)

We stopped to smell various scents in the woods, none of which I recognized. I need to work on that sense! We also touched various tree trunks to feel their textures.

We walked, covering our ears with our hands to simulate how a deer hears. It felt similar to hearing a radio play while swimming underwater. As we continued on in silence, I heard a beaver slap its tail in warning as our group came close to its lake. We carefully picked out way on a boardwalk out on the lake where the naturalist gave us paper and pencils and directed us to draw a specific nature scene. Since we couldn't see the paper, it was great fun at the end of the hike to see the accuracy (or not) of our sketching.

Later, the naturalist spaced us out on the trail so that we each stood alone facing out to the lake to watch a vivid orange moon rise over a hill. Canada geese flew past in one direction, reversed, and honked toward some different destination. Two more beavers sent their warning. Each sound reverberated in the silence.

As we walked the last minutes of our 90-minute hike, I realized how much more comfortable I had become with the darkness. (The moon never got high enough over the hill before we were finished to guide us.) As poet, Theodore Roethke wrote, “In a dark time, the eye begins to see…” He meant something different, but for me as a writer, the darkness reminded me of the power of my other senses. For me, and for the characters whose lives I create.

In discussing her new play, "A Civil War Christmas: An American Musical Celebration", Pulitzer Prize-winning playwright Paula Vogel said she likes to tell "all the stories that are erased from history by the hand of the historians, all of the stories hidden from us by prejudice."

I am happy that I was able to bring to light the story of a young slave girl who walked the Trail of Tears. Stories like Priscilla’s were most often lost because slaves, Cherokees on the Trail of Tears and other oppressed peoples usually didn’t have the luxury to record their personal histories.

The first time I showed an unpublished version of Priscilla's story to my Little Sister (then eleven years old), she said, "That is so sad!" I pointed out Priscilla's courage, her resiliency and the way her life was ultimately transformed. But Nicole was right; it is sad to read of people treated as less-than-human and subjected to physical and emotional abuse by those who believed it was possible to "own" another person.

How to teach children about life’s sadder parts can be tricky. Some parents choose to shelter their young as long as possible. Others want the kids to know (in an age-appropriate way) that “bad things do happen to good people.”

A friend of mine recently commented, “Some adults feel like we should shield kids from the realities of how we as humans can sometimes treat each other...or even that bad things (like droughts and famine) happen in the world. They will learn eventually, and how much better that they learn when they are still young and idealistic enough to want to change the world as a result!”

Last week, I presented about Priscilla and the Hollyhocks to well-prepared second graders at Pike School as part of their "Coming to America" unit. When I asked "What are some of the reasons people immigrated to the United States?" they had plenty of answers. From their responses to my next question, "Did any people come to the United States against their will?" the children clearly understood what slavery was, and proceeded to explain the difference between a slave and a servant or employee.

The teachers had used Priscilla and the Hollyhocks as an entry point into a difficult subject: slavery. Other wonderful children’s books do the same for different periods of history. Check out One Thousand Tracings: Healing the Wounds of World War IIby Lita Judge, Birmingham, 1963 by Carol Boston Weatherford, and Encounter by Jane Yolen (the Taino people meet Columbus).

Authors, parents and teachers can be a good team as we help young readers understand troubling aspects of history and inspire them to make sure those histories do not repeat.

My daughter recently gave me a bookmark from a Thich Nhat Hanh retreat that says, “No mud no lotus.” The saying recently fit my mental state because I had moments over the past few months when I felt slogged in mud, but couldn’t quite see the lotus that will send its tall stem out of the mud through the water into the sunlight.

Immersed in a revision that is at times painful and frustrating, I felt like I had a mini-breakthrough last night at one of my critique group meetings. For at least one portion of the novel (the protagonist's relationship with her love interest) I see a clear story arc that will undoubtedly inform and impact story arcs of the other sub-plots.

Out of the mud, a lotus!
 

Yesterday, I heard Barbara Kingsolver speak at “Writers on New England Stage” in Portsmouth, NH. That morning, on the day her new book was published, Kingsolver passed a bookstore in the Charlotte, NC airport and was disappointed not to see THE LACUNA on display. While she stood in front of the store, she saw two employees use box cutters to open a box filled with copies of her book. Kingsolver thought, "I should have a video camera to film the birth—caesarean, with box cutters—of my brand-new, bouncing baby book.”

Here are my notes from Kingsolver’s reading and her radio interview with Laura Knoy of New Hampshire Public Radio. 

On LACUNA:

“The notion of living democracies led me into this book.’

“Why are people so uneasy with any combination of art and politics?”

On beginning a novel:

“The first sentence or a story, or the first paragraph, should make a promise that the rest of the novel will keep. I rewrite the first page of my novels a hundred times—no exaggeration—because I want the words to be perfect.”

“I always begin a book with a big question, something engaging I can spend years with.”

On the role of the novelist:

Readers of novels “don’t just judge a period of history from the outside, but feel it from the inside through the characters’ experiences.”

“Novels…build empathy for the theoretical stranger.”

“Empathy for the stranger is the most political act in the world. It is the antidote to war.”

“A good work of art takes you someplace you haven’t been before.”

“Regardless of the politics of the novelist, books put you in other people’s point of view.”

“Novelists must own up to the power inherent in the work.”

Fiction or non-fiction:

Since half of Kingsolver’s books are fiction, the other half non-fiction (plus a book poems), Knoy asked Kingsolver how she chooses which to write. The author’s response: “For me, it depends on whether fiction or nonfiction is the best vehicle to transport the ‘big question’ about which I am writing.”

“I don’t make points. I ask questions.”

On her writing process:

When Knoy asked her about her writing process, Kingsolver said, “Well, I became an author the day I became a mother, so the two have always been intertwined.” She shared that sixteen hours after the birth of her first child, Camille, she received the call from Harper Collins that they wanted to publish THE BEAN TREES. “Through a hormonal stupor,” Kingsolver contemplated a life where she could earn a living as a writer.

“My writing process has always been defined by the school bus.”

“My muse carries a baseball bat. I have no time for writer’s block.”

Each time she goes to write, Kingsolver says it is like saying “Goodbye, family. I’m going to spend time with my imaginary people.” At the end of her writing time, she must find the discipline of pulling herself out of that place and away from those characters.

Revision:

“Revision is my favorite thing.”

“A first draft is like hoeing a row of potatoes. After that, the fun begins.”

“I love moving text, and I love the delete key.”

Kingsolver said that during revision, she often throws away the first 100 pages. It’s easier to delete those unnecessary pages “if I think of it as writing 100 to 0.”

“It’s like digging for gold. You have to get rid of the dirt in order to get to the gold.”

On the relationship between author and reader:

“When I finish the writing, the book is half done. When you read it, it’s all done.”

On patriotism:

If we want to change anything about our government, to criticize the government or how things were done, it is considered un-American. Do such people in France get called ‘unFrench?’ Or, in Mexico, ‘unMexican’? To me, it seems like the best kind of patriotism when you want to help improve your country.”

Recently, two young friends and I had a passionate discussion about LITTLE WOMEN. Lucy just finished college at NYU. Her sister, Helen, is a sophomore at Boston University. Like me, they grew up with Louisa May Alcott’s books and have reread them numerous times. We’ve gone to Orchard House in Concord together, and stood before Alcott’s grave on Author’s Ridge in the Sleepy Hollow Cemetery. We know and can compare all the filmed versions of the story, and each have our own favorites. Over the years, we’ve debated whether Katherine Hepburn, June Allyson or Winona Ryder made the best Jo.  And who was most like Beth? (I’m partial to Margaret O’Brien.) The story of Meg, Jo, Beth and Amy is part of our shared experience, the characters in the book almost like family.

The other three persons sharing dinner with us while we debated Alcott’s chosen ending sat back, perhaps dumbfounded by the strong emotions called forth by a work of fiction published in two parts in 1868-1869.  (Amusement was written on their faces: “It’s just a BOOK!”) Yet Lucy, Helen and I agreed that Jo and Laurie were more “soul-connected,” an obvious pair, and vain, shallow Amy didn’t deserve him. Never mind that the author choices was perhaps the most feminist-oriented; after all, Jo didn’t make the easy choice, but turned down Laurie in favor of an older man who was more her intellectual equal.

Alcott actually had wanted to leave Jo unmarried. Her readers clamored for resolution (specifically, marriage to Laurie—they were as passionate as Lucy, Helen and I still are). Alcott said, “… so many enthusiastic young ladies wrote to me clamorously demanding that she should marry Laurie, or somebody, that I didn't dare refuse and out of perversity went and made a funny match for her."

What a legacy Louisa May Alcott left, that 140 years after LITTLE WOMEN was published, readers still deeply care about her characters. And recently, when I once again visited Author's Ridge and stood before the March family graves, I noticed the sweet offerings that readers had left on Louisa's grave, including pennies, pine-cones, brightly-colored leaves, acorns, pebbles and writing implements.

A peacemaking group in our area recently offered the opportunity to "adopt" an Iraqi refugee family from the many who have settled in our area. I jumped at the chance to get to know people from such a different background, and hoped my friendship might help them feel more at home in this country. I spent a morning in their apartment getting to know I___, T___ and their sweet 18-month old, J___. (Anonymity may not be needed, but seems the safest way to tell their story since they are in this country because of death threats in their homeland.) Last night they came to dinner at our home along with another new friend.

Instead of saying a grace before dinner as we usually do in our home, I had us hold hands, and stated my gratitude for our guests, the food, the chance to become friends. Then I____ said, "Before we eat, we say, 'Bismallah', which means 'In the name of God.'" We all said, "Bismallah." As we filled our plates, we spoke of our different faith practices. Our other new friend is a "C and E Christian." I___ and T___ are Muslims. My husband and I, United Methodist ministers. But the ways we view God and our response of faith are similar.

We spoke of how their homeland has been devastated by war, of their long, sad journey being uprooted from their homes in northern Iraq, and how they ended up in Massachusetts with no seeming possibility of ever returning home. I___ and T___ are young parents raising their son to speak three languages (English, Arabic, and Turkish since the child was born in a refugee camp there) without the presence of grandparents, aunts, uncles, brothers or sisters. Their only contact with their large family is through the internet and telephone. We discussed child bedtimes, diet, toys, books, the etiquette of eating crackers. They have few people they know enough to ask questions about how to raise an American child.

J_____ ‘s presence enlivened our spirits. We lifted our hands to touch his every time he put his small palm in the air and said, “Five!” We took turns playing peek-a-boo with him and learned to say what sounds like “Day!” when we showed our faces from behind our hands. We watched this young boy’s bright eyed, smiling face and were reminded that he knows no nationality, no religion, nothing but the safety of being surrounded by people who love him.

As we sat around the dinner table I thought, This is where peace begins. Peace is not about politicians or policies, terrorists or armies. Peace begins with sharing stories of our past and dreams for the future. Peace comes from human beings seeking to share the same planet amicably, to find their commonality instead of focusing on differences.

As I continue to forge a friendship with this Iraqi family, I will be guided by these words from Mohandas Gandhi:

I have been learning from May Sarton's writings for most of my adult life, and only recently discovered this poem.

An Observation

by
May Sarton

True gardeners cannot bear a glove
Between the sure touch and the tender root,
Must let their hands grow knotted as they move
With a rough sensitivity about
Under the earth, between the rock and shoot,
Never to bruise or wound the hidden fruit.
And so I watched my mother's hands grow scarred,
She who could heal the wounded plant or friend
With the same vulnerable yet rigorous love;
I minded once to see her beauty gnarled,
But now her truth is given me to live,
As I learn for myself we must be hard
To move among the tender with an open hand,
And to stay sensitive up to the end
Pay with some toughness for a gentle world.

(from A Private Mythology, 1966)

I heard E. L. Doctorow in Portsmouth, NH last night as part of the “New England Writers on Stage” series at the Music Hall.  I enjoyed his comments on his current book, Homer and Langley and of course felt intrigued by how he views his own writing process. When asked how much research he does on his books, Doctorow replied, “Just enough” (audience laughter) and confessed that he does less research than many writers. For some writers, he mused, research gets in the way of writing. “The weight of what they know squashes their imagination.”

I know that my early drafts of my Trail of Tears young adult novel were indeed weighed down by all I knew and all I felt I still needed to know.  It took me many drafts to focus in on the drama of the protagonist’s story, not the overarching historical events that formed its background.

Doctorow said authors interpret historical figures much as a portrait painter works from their unique vision of their subject. He mentioned the King Richard II Society, which believes that the king was maligned by Shakespeare, and seek to restore the truth of his person and reign. (I think Doctorow is on Shakespeare’s side!) And of course, who of us writing about people and events in the past can be 100% sure that the story we tell is accurate?

“I feel a great responsibility to all my characters,” he said, “yet in fiction, there are no rules. The author says to the reader, ‘You can trust me. I’m an honest liar.’”

My favorite Doctorow quote from the evening: “When you write a book, it begins to tell you what it is.”

In a recent YANKEE magazine interview*, Ken Burns said, “A story is the way we distill experience. And stories will always be the way we do it.”

Burns (the talented director/producer who has made films about such diverse subjects as the Civil War, baseball, jazz, the West and the Second World War) said, “You take on the topic, not because you know something about it, but because you don’t know something about it. It has a kind of siren call; it interests you, it fits into what you’re thinking about. And I’ve said I think we’ve made the same film over and over again. We’re just asking the simple question Who are we?”

I hope you're watching Burns' excellent new series, Our National Parks, which is airing this week. Burns tells the stories not only of such magnificent places as Yosemite and Yellowstone, but you'll also learn the personal stories of John Muir and Shelton Johnson and others who helped create and maintain our parks system.

As you listen, think of your own relationship to any of the 58 National Parks. What stories could you tell?

(*Interview by Ian Aldrich, YANKEE: New England’s Magazine, September/October 2009, p. 98)

When The Grapes of Wrath was first published, it was banned throughout the country. Thousands of copies were burned in an effort to purge the world of its dangerous words. The 1940 John Ford film adaptation of the novel featured these words from Tom Joad to his mother:

“I’ll be all around in the dark. I’ll be ever’-where - wherever you can look. Wherever there’s a fight so hungry people can eat, I’ll be there. Wherever there’s a cop beatin’ up a guy, I’ll be there. I’ll be in the way guys yell when they’re mad - I’ll be in the way kids laugh when they’re hungry an’ they know supper’s ready. An’ when the people are eatin’ the stuff they raise, and livin’ in the houses they build - I’ll be there, too.”

When others seek to ban books in a nation that prides itself on freedom of speech, will WE be there?

As an Arizona native who never heard of the Camp Grant Massacre, I was fascinated by Karl Jacoby’s new book, Shadows at Dawn: A Borderlands Massacre and the Violence of History (Penguin History of American Life, 2008). Although I grew up in Tucson and was always aware of both the Apache and Tohono O'odham (then known as Papago) tribes living nearby, I never learned about this massacre in school. And although I knew how my state had once been part of Mexico, I hadn’t realized the complicated interactions and relationships between Mexicans and Americans. In reading Shadows at Dawn,  I was reminded how many peoples considered the new territories in the western United States their homeland and how complicated it is to tell a history that belongs to no single people or voice. Even Apaches of that era were no unified group, but separate sub-tribes often in conflict with one another. 

Jacoby writes that the past “asks of us…a willingness to recount all our stories—our darkest tales as well as our most inspiring ones—and to ponder those stories that violence has silenced forever. For without first recognizing our shared capacity for inhumanity, how can we at last begin to tell stories of our mutual humanity?”

The author weaves together Tohono O'odham, Mexican, American and Apache perspectives of the Camp Grant Massacre. The facts: in 1871, a group of Tohono O'odham, Mexican and American men attacked a sleeping Apache village and murdered 144 people, mostly women and children. Twenty-seven Apache children were taken away, mostly to be sold as slaves. In its time, this incident was controversial like the Battle of Wounded Knee or My Lai.

Jacoby's scholarship seeks to set the scene for both the Massacre and its aftermath.  His scholarship shows the overlapping agendas of the four groups of people and how they each viewed both the land, their own culture, and the other cultures. At various points over a not-so-lengthy period of time, the different peoples were friends, enemies, making treaties, attempting to cheat each other, doing business together, murdering each other, intermarrying, at peace, at war, conquering and conquered. And yet, at dawn on an April morning in 1871, a band of men brutally murdered, raped, dismembered and scalped people they were able to see as "other", even  though some of the killers knew the Apaches by name.

History is most often told by the conquerors. The dead cannot share their perspectives. At some point, many truths are lost, and one story may become the accepted “truth.” For me as a writer, many of the books I am trying to sell (as well as the already-published Priscilla and the Hollyhocks) highlight people whose stories have not been told. Yet because I was not alive in 1838 and Priscilla left no written record of her life, I had to choose between the versions of her life left by other people. Not having overheard her conversations with Basil Silkwood, for instance, I had to imagine what they might have discussed. I can only hope that by being clear that I write historical FICTION, I am not doing further violence to the memory of someone who has already been oppressed by slavery or poverty or other dehumanizing conditions.

Nikki Giovanni wrote: "Priscilla and the Hollyhocks tells a story too often ignored or overlooked — a story of how the west was not won but captured. Reading about Priscilla's remarkable life makes all our hearts a bit warmer while filling our heads with a much-needed piece of American history."

Thanks to  Karl Jacoby, whose book on the Camp Grant Massacre also gives "a much-needed piece of American History."

We watched "Last Chance Harvey" the other night--a lovely, quiet film starring Dustin Hoffman and Emma Thompson. If you are the sort of moviegoer who expects frequent car chases, lots of weapons and/or shouting/passionate sex/addictions/crying jags, this is not the film for you. If you are the sort of moviegoer who appreciates consummate acting, can breathe deeply as the camera focuses on one character's reactions, and enjoys watching characters change from the inside out, you might enjoy this quiet film.

Quiet? Did I say QUIET? For writers (as well as most movie producers), "quiet" is the kiss of death. Recently, I've heard editors say of numerous beautiful, bestselling classic children's books, "Well, this would never sell today. It's just too quiet." "Last Chance Harvey" might not have been made, either, if not for the star power of two actors who wanted this chance to work together and saw the opportunity to bring ordinary characters alive.

I appreciate the thrills that fast-paced movies and books bring. "What happens next?" There’s a certain satisfaction that comes after the built-up tension is released by the end. But when it comes to children's books, quiet has its place. “Quiet” may mean that more happens in the characters’ internal lives than in external action.  But as in “Last Chance Harvey”, change does happen.

Quiet books can suspend time, the books that are read at bedtime while sitting on a beloved adult’s lap. Books that by their very quietness lead the child into sleep. Or quiet books that aren’t just for bedtimes, but nevertheless, gently transport the reader into a place of stillness and peace.

Several of my manuscripts have been rejected with the curse of “too quiet for today’s market.” I usually receive commendation on the style of my writing, the research I’ve done and other aspects of character or setting or dialogue. Yet the books remain unpublished. Will the market change to accommodate these books? I continue to work on other projects that I hope will sell, and hold out hope that some day, quiet books will again be appreciated. And published.

There are hundreds of good books published every year. Probably more. Of those books, prolific readers will rack up a long list of books read, a shorter list of memorable, possibly life-changing books. Some books are meant to be savored, drawn out to last as long as possible. Others must be devoured quickly as if other readers are savagely waiting to snatch the book out of one’s hands. Most books fall somewhere in between.

Because I am always reading three books concurrently (one in print, and two audio books: one in my car CD system and one on my Ipod), last week I had the experience of finishing all three books within a day of each other. And all three were luscious and breathtaking, heartbreakingly satisfying.

I listened to Amy Bloom’s Away on audio in my car. Barbara Rosenblat’s incredible narration brought the story alive and made me eager to drive somewhere, anywhere just to spend time with this book. Away is an epic tale across continents with a plethora of fascinating characters. I rooted for Lillian Leyb and was sad when the book ended (though the author deftly summarizes the rest of Lillian’s life in a satisfying way). I was driving on a busy street in Lawrence, Massachusetts when I heard the last words of Away. I switched from the CD player to NPR, but realized I could not focus on world news because my head and heart remained in Alaska in 1924. As I drove home, I found myself grinning as I thought of Lillian, her trials and tribulations, and how she survived and made a new life for herself. That evening, Lillian continued to come to mind. Again, I smiled.

If I Stay by Gayle Foreman is a young adult novel about a 17 year-old who survives a horrific car accident that claims her parents and younger brother. Mia exists between life and death, and can see both her own severely-injured body in the hospital, and the responses of all those who love her and wait for her recovery. Much of the book is told in flashback, telling readers about Mia’s life before the accident. The audio edition is fittingly accompanied by haunting cello music; Mia is a cellist on her way to Julliard. The cello/music functions as a character and by the end, augments the emotion of Mia’s decision: stay (live) or go (die)? I was a blubbering mass when the book ended. I immediately put on a Yo-Yo Ma CD to prolong the deep feelings evoked by this book.

Karen Fisher’s A Sudden Country was haunting and mysterious from page one. I immersed myself in an 1846 journey west—a hard, life-threatening journey toward Oregon that was a collision between cultures, between landscapes, between the already-civilized and the yet-to-be-claimed. I loved Fisher’s use of language and the way the western landscapes got under my skin so that I was simultaneously in love with and terrified by the West’s beauty and size. The two main characters, McClaren and Lucy, are a counterpoint of the East and West and I ached for each of them to find what they needed.

When I finished A Sudden Country, I closed the book and sat still. Opened the book and reread the last several sections. Thought about what was historically accurate and what imagined. Felt pain for both Lucy and McLaren. Read those last pages again.

Good books come in all sizes, shapes, subjects, author styles. What they have in common is the power to burrow inside and claim a place deep in the reader’s mind and heart. Lillian, Mia, Lucy and McClaren are all part of me now.