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How does a Pulitzer Prize-winning reporter overcome a lifelong fear of animals? By writing a captivating newspaper series about Tampa Bay’s Lowry Park Zoo, to begin with. Then by transforming that series into a remarkable book about life and work inside a zoo and the difficult questions zoos raise about how humans relate to nature.

“I had some bad experiences as a paperboy and I never really got over them,” says Thomas French, discussing the origins of his animal angst. “But I had to get over them because to do this project I was going to be spending a lot of time around a lot of animals. The animals were so interesting and their keepers were so wonderfully open in allowing me into this world that I really grew. This project was one of the most exhilarating experiences I’ve had as a journalist.”

That’s saying a lot. French spent three decades as a reporter at the St. Petersburg Times, winning his Pulitzer Prize for feature writing in 1997, and a host of other awards along the way. He recently accepted a buyout offer and now teaches at the journalism school at Indiana University, flying to Bloomington to teach classes in narrative journalism midweek, then returning home to “St. Pete” for the weekends. “I empathize with the George Clooney character in Up in the Air,” French says. “Not with his disengagement from humanity, but with his tips on how to like working on a plane and how to deal with all the travel.” French’s wife, Kelley Benham, is enterprise editor at the St. Petersburg Times and part of a team that was a Pulitzer finalist this year. French’s sons, a high school senior and a college junior, are both interested in playwriting. “Yeah,” French says, “we’re a family of writers.”

And it is a writer, rather than some therapeutic urge, that French credits with inspiring what became his marvelous book Zoo Story. “I read Yann Martel’s Life of Pi in the summer of 2003, and I was totally enchanted by that book. I was drawn as a reporter to a passage where the narrator talks about the misconceptions people have about life inside a zoo. It wasn’t the heart of what the book was about, but it drew me because as a narrative reporter I’ve spent a lot of time reporting inside other institutions— courthouses, police stations, public schools—and when I read that passage, I realized I’d never read a detailed, in-depth look inside the institution of the zoo. I sent the passage to Lowry Park Zoo and asked if that is what it’s really like. They emailed me saying it was actually more complicated than that.”

Complicated indeed. French began his reporting as Lowry Park Zoo was embroiled in a controversial effort to import 11 elephants from Swaziland. Elephants, as French shows so clearly, are remarkable animals, intelligent, highly sensitive to their environs and perhaps even self-aware. But their habitat is shrinking and, like humans, they “have the ability to alter their surrounding ecosystem.” This leaves Africa’s nature parks and game reserves with hard choices—cull the herds or transport the animals elsewhere. But moving elephants, especially long distances, has its own complex set of issues. In French’s remarkable narration, the story of moving and settling these elephants—one of the through lines of Zoo Story—is filled with drama and surprise.

“That’s what narrative reporting is,” French says. “You look for what a friend of mine calls fault lines, where good intentions clash with other aspects of reality. Or where the need to make a profit runs up against other questions, such as the issue of conservation. This is really a story that takes place at the intersection of conservation and commerce.”

Thus another side of French’s Zoo Story is the tale of the zoo as an organization of management and staff. Management in this case is Lex Salisbury, Lowry Park’s CEO and an alpha among alphas. “Lex is an interesting guy to write about,” French says. “He’s very admirable in many ways. He’s a visionary. He brings a lot of joy and passion to this enterprise. But he’s very, very complicated. The arc of his ambition and his passion gets tangled up with his leadership style. There are a lot of people who do not like him.”

Some of the people who do not like Salisbury are current and former staff. “Lowry Park for a long time has not paid their keepers very much money,” French says. “Part of the calculus is that this is a job that many, many people long to do. People love to work with animals. So realistically, they don’t have to pay their keepers very much money. No zoo does. But it’s a physically demanding job, it requires a lot of expertise, and it is dangerous.”

The conflict between a passionate, knowledgeable, underpaid staff and an equally passionate, dictatorial boss creates an explosive situation. And it is a drama that continued to unfold beyond the printing of the book’s first galleys. “I’ve been reporting on that and revising until much later than is healthy, just trying to keep up with the story,” French says.

Still, the primary focus of Zoo Story is on the animals. French has done a considerable amount of research and writes interestingly on animals ranging from orangutans to dart frogs and on issues ranging from the Machiavellian behavior of chimpanzees to Lowry Park’s groundbreaking efforts to save endangered manatees. He writes with passion and sympathy about a regal Sumatran tiger called Enshalla and a tragically mixed-up chimpanzee named Herman. But in writing so well about these animals in the zoo, French raises fundamental questions.

“From the very beginning I had in mind this question of freedom. What does freedom mean to humans? What does it mean to other species? What are the limits of freedom in a world that is so crowded that many species are becoming extinct every year?” French says. “A zoo is one of the frontiers where we confront these issues . . . where we see the fault line between wildness and civilization. Just watch people standing in front of tigers, the way they behave confronting an animal with such lethal potential. It’s stunning. It brings something out in people.

“Zoos are here,” French says. “They’ve been a part of human culture for centuries. A zoo is a laboratory not just for the study of animals but for the study of the human animal. As time went on, I felt I was learning as much about people as about any other species.”

In Zoo Story, French opens a window on the inner workings of a zoo, and it turns out to be a mirror in which we see something new about ourselves. 

How does a Pulitzer Prize-winning reporter overcome a lifelong fear of animals? By writing a captivating newspaper series about Tampa Bay’s Lowry Park Zoo, to begin with. Then by transforming that series into a remarkable book about life and work inside a zoo and the…

Alexander McCall Smith is one of the world's most beloved authors—his No. 1 Ladies' Detective Agency books, which inspired an HBO series, have sold more than 20 million copies, and most of his 60-plus novels have become bestsellers. Though they're set in disparate locales, Smith's works are linked by their gentle humor and generous spirit. His latest book, Corduroy Mansions, depends on the chaos that can arise when many people simply go about the job of living their lives in a small pocket within a larger city—London. It was first published as a serial—in print, and via podcast—by the U.K.'s Daily Telegraph newspaper and has just been released in the U.S. McCall Smith took a moment to speak to BookPage about the appeal of writing series and where he gets his sense of humor.

Writing series (at last count you have five on the go now) is your bread and butter. What is the allure to writing continuing series rather than stand-alone fiction? Do you ever feel overwhelmed by all of your creations?

I love getting back to the same characters. Going back to a series is like meeting an old friend. Sometimes, though, I feel that I have rather many fictional characters milling about me—but I don't lose any sleep over it!

In some sense Corduroy Mansions feels very English and almost like a print version of such British staples as the long-running soap Coronation Street. Were you at all influenced by that show (or any other)?

I don't think that I have been influenced by any television show. Soap operas, of course, are simply long-running stories—sagas, I suppose. I think that the idea of people leading fairly intimate lives in the middle of a great city is an intriguing one—I often think about that when I am in a large city and see people conducting their lives as if they were in a village—meeting neighbours, taking an interest in local issues and so on. We create such spaces for ourselves in the middle of these large conurbations.

Corduroy Mansions is the first in a new series set in London. How is writing about it different than writing about Edinburgh or Botswana? What made you choose London as the setting for this story?

I wrote this for the Daily Telegraph, which has a large circulation in England. I thought that it would be interesting for my English readers to have a story set in London. 

A lot of the fun of your books is the humor you put into them. Are there other writers whose sense of humor you admire?

I very much admire the English humorous writer, E.F. Benson (the Mapp and Lucia novels). Barbara Pym was very funny, in an understated sort of way. David Sedaris is wickedly amusing.

Philosophy plays a part in much of your work—there's a great scene in Corduroy Mansions where a character speculates on Freud as applied to the banking crisis. Do you often find yourself applying a philosophical outlook to everyday life?

I suppose that I do. Philosophy should be about everyday life as well as about more theoretical issues.

You’ve published serial fiction, short story collections, children’s books and even academic texts on law and ethics. Is there any genre you haven’t tackled yet that you’d love to have a go at?

No, I don't think so. Mind you, now that you come to mention it, I suppose that it would be interesting to tackle a stage play. Yes, now let's think . . .

Corduroy Mansions was first released as weekly serial online, much as the works of Charles Dickens and other Victorian writers were. What made you decide to write a new series in this way?

I have always been aware that Dickens used this method of publishing, but I don't think that is what inspired me. I was more inspired, I suppose, by Armistead Maupin, who revived this form of novel with his Tales of the City. In fact, it was a meeting with Armistead in San Francisco, at a party at Amy Tan's house, that gave me the idea. I am most grateful to him for that inspiration! My first newspaper novel was Scotland Street—now coming up for its sixth year. I started this new series because I enjoyed the form so much.

With the ever-increasing popularity of the internet and ebooks, several notable authors have taken to releasing their books for free online. To some extent Corduroy Mansions is an expansion on this concept. What were your motivations in releasing the book online for free first?

It was the newspaper's idea. I was very pleased that we would reach a new audience. I also liked the idea of a daily conversation with my readers.

>One of your most popular works is The No. 1 Ladies’ Detective Agency series. Given that those novels always involve a dash of mystery, they must involve some degree of plotting. Did you find that in writing this way your writing became more flexible and spontaneous? To what extent was plot influenced by reader reactions?

Corduory Mansions just evolved as I wrote it. I had no idea of the plot beforehand—other than a general idea of who the characters would be. I responded to readers as I went along. The internet made it possible for this response to be quite quick.

When it comes to publication rates, few authors are as prodigious as you! How do you manage to write so unceasingly? Do you ever worry you might one day find your creative well has run dry?
I hope it won't! I very much enjoy what I do, and I suppose that helps.

Alexander McCall Smith is one of the world's most beloved authors—his No. 1 Ladies' Detective Agency books, which inspired an HBO series, have sold more than 20 million copies, and most of his 60-plus novels have become bestsellers. Though they're set in disparate locales, Smith's…

Chevy Stevens has received a bigger reception for her first novel than many authors will ever see: fast-paced thriller Still Missing has a first print run of 150,000 copies, and at the time of this interview, rights have been sold in 16 countries. If you start the novel, it’s easy to identify the root of the buzz: the story itself, which zips by in a can’t-put-it-down blur.

Protagonist Annie O’Sullivan is a successful real estate agent and a confident, independent woman—and in short order she’s abducted at an open house by a charming potential buyer. For more than a year, The Freak holds her captive in a cabin, dictating everything from Annie’s clothing, to her food, to her bathroom schedule. Because the narrative is told in a series of flashbacks, the reader knows all along that Annie gets out alive. She tells her story throughout appointments with her psychiatrist, although the action comes back to the present when an investigator starts to work on the case.

Readers will root for Annie’s fierce resolve—and be blown away by a shocking twist at the end. If that’s not enough to hook you, read on for more from Stevens herself, who answered questions on her early success, writing brutally violent scenes and a Realtor’s worst nightmare.

Still Missing is an incredibly intense novel with viscerally painful scenes of violence and rape. Was it difficult for you to write the graphic passages? Did you do any research to get inside the mind of a woman who has been abducted and abused?
It was very difficult to go into the more intense scenes, whether they were physical or emotional, and afterward I would feel drained for hours. When I wrote terrifying scenes my heart was racing, and when I worked on parts where Annie was sad, vulnerable or simply unable to connect with someone, I hurt along with her.

I didn’t do any research on abduction cases and tried to avoid reading about anything that was remotely related as I wanted the story to come from inside me. I did some online research about PTSD and the five stages of grief, but the majority came from my own imagination and personal life experiences.

The reader knows from the beginning of Still Missing that Annie will get away from her captor—the story is told in a series of post-abduction sessions with her psychiatrist. Why did you choose this structure?
I didn’t actually choose the structure so much as it just came out that way. When I first heard my character’s voice in my head, she was telling her story to a therapist, so when I started writing I just began with a session. It was always in first person and I never considered writing any other way.

You have said that the idea for Still Missing came to you when you worked as a real estate agent: you would imagine horrible scenarios—like being abducted during an open house. Did your dark imagination ever interfere with your work? 
I wouldn’t say it interfered with my work, but it made me more careful. When I hosted open houses I avoided showing basements and if I wasn’t sure of someone, I stood in the doorway. I always had my cell phone in hand, ready to dial, and I avoided meeting clients at homes if I hadn’t met them at my office first. In most situations I just tried to listen to my instincts and I did pass on a couple of clients who made me uncomfortable.

Have any real estate agents read Still Missing . . . then accused you of inducing nightmares?
I haven’t heard from any real estate agents as of yet, but I think it’s a fear a lot of female Realtors already have. Most of them are very careful—as all women should be when they are alone and in a vulnerable situation. Annie’s nightmare starts with an open house, but tragically many women are hurt in parking lots, walking home or simply going for a morning jog.

The tagline for Still Missing is “The truth doesn't always set you free.” Is this true for Annie? Would she have been better off if she hadn’t solved the mystery of her abduction?
Good question. It was a painful truth and she’s going to be dealing with it for a long time, but I think when there’s a tragedy a lot of people need to know why it happened before they can move on. That’s why some mothers of murder victims want to talk to the killer after he’s been caught. As horrific as the answers may be, it gives them something to move forward from.

The Freak makes Annie read him Pat Conroy’s The Prince of Tides, a book that prominently features a psychiatrist character (not to mention brutal rape). Were you inspired by that novel—or any others—when you were writing Still Missing?
I loved The Prince of Tides for its honesty, but it didn’t inspire any aspect of Still Missing. In this case, I needed a book that I felt The Freak—and Annie—might connect with and remembered The Prince of Tides as being a powerful book that dealt with family dysfunction. I’ve always been attracted to stories about twisted family dynamics and survivors of crime—of people overcoming any form of abuse.

Still Missing has a 150,000-copy first printing and rights have been sold in several countries. How does it feel for your first novel to be such an international success?
Yes, Still Missing has now sold to 16 countries in addition to North America, which has been very exciting. It means a lot to me that Annie’s story is connecting with people around the world. I feel it’s a testimony to the human spirit’s desire to overcome the injustices that so many people face in their lives. On a personal note, I love the idea of many cultures experiencing a bit of the West Coast of Canada. [Still Missing takes place on Vancouver Island.] And I’ve found it fascinating to see all the different covers.

You have said that you didn’t consider genre conventions when you wrote Still Missing. In BookPage, however, the novel is reviewed as part of a “Women in Mystery” feature—paying homage to the women writers who have been in the “vanguard of suspense fiction.” Do you consider yourself to be a successor to writers such as Agatha Christie and Dorothy L. Sayers, or is your style something totally different?
It’s an honor to see those names anywhere near mine! I have huge respect for all the women writers who have paved the way for the rest of us, but I try not to emulate anyone or compare my style to theirs. I was just telling the story in my voice as it came to me and hoping it connected with others.

Still Missing includes a twist at the 11th hour. Were you aware of this story turn from the beginning, or did it come to you later in the writing process?
The twist wasn’t in my mind when I first sat down to write, but it did happen organically in my first draft. Subsequent rewrites were to make sure that the foundation was there all along.

You have already signed a deal to write two sequels to Still Missing. Will the plot of your next book, Never Knowing, be a direct continuation of Still Missing? Will it star Annie O’Sullivan? Can you give any details?
Never Knowing isn’t a direct sequel, but it does have the same therapist, Nadine, who we met in Still Missing. Sara, the main character in Never Knowing, has a different dynamic with Nadine than Annie did, and also a unique energy of her own, so it’s interesting for me to see how that drives the story forward.

 

Photo courtesy of Suzanne Teresa.

Chevy Stevens has received a bigger reception for her first novel than many authors will ever see: fast-paced thriller Still Missing has a first print run of 150,000 copies, and at the time of this interview, rights have been sold in 16 countries. If…

Author Lily King is known for her sensitive exploration of family ties. In her third book, Father of the Rain, she follows the tumultuous relationship of a father and a daughter. She answered a few questions for BookPage about her work, the place and ideas that inspire it, and the dangers of falling in love with your characters.

You published your first book just a little over 10 years ago. In that time, how would you say you have evolved as a writer?
Great question. So hard to answer. Each novel seems to demand a different voice, a different structure, a whole different ethos, really. It doesn’t feel so much like evolution as just responding to the different circumstances in each book.  When I finished this new novel, Father of the Rain, I was surprised to notice how much dialogue there is, and how little exposition. I hadn’t really been conscious of that. But I don’t feel like I’m evolving into a writer who uses more dialogue at the expense of the kind of description I used in The Pleasing Hour, for example. It’s just that these particular characters had a lot to say to each other, and they needed so little narration to tell their story.

I would like to think that I’m getting better at getting the words on the page with less angst. I used to revise everything I wrote previously before I went on. But I’ve learned that it’s better to just keep moving, and put on your editor’s hat much later in the process. When I’m writing a first draft, I have to imagine a white canvas, how a painter does not go from left to right filling in every little detail, but makes a rough outline in blue and then begins putting on the colors, sharpening the shapes, layer upon layer. I’ve taught myself to trust that this is how a book is made, too.

In your last novel, The English Teacher, you focused on the relationship between a mother and a son. In Father of the Rain you focus on the relationship between a father and a daughter. In what way do you think the dynamics are different between these two types of fundamental parental relationships?
I am no psychologist, and I have no support for this statement, but I do think that a person’s relationship with his or her mother tends to shape the way that person feels about him or herself, and the relationship with the father has more of an effect on the way that person feels the world is responding to that self. Peter, in The English Teacher, really struggles internally, with his own personality, whereas Daley, in Father of the Rain, doesn’t wrestle with who she is but has to overcome the assumption that people don’t want her around, the she is not valuable in this world.

One of the problems Daley struggles with in this novel is finding a compromise between her romantic life, professional ambitions and family obligations. Do you think this conflict is still one that affects women more than men?
I do, though I think that is changing, and more men are making career decisions with partner and family in mind. But Daley’s own dysfunctional role in her family is what really stagnates her in this situation. She is really unable to pursue her goals because she feels her father’s life is far more important than her own.

Are you an author who draws from experience when you write, or do you see a very clear line between yourself and the characters you write?
I think that line is always changing, from book to book, and from scene to scene. There are entirely fictional elements in all my novels, and a few autobiographical elements that drop in, usually unexpectedly. The narrators and other characters are very distinct from me and my experiences. With Daley, the narrator of Father of the Rain, the line blurred slightly. She is probably the closest of all my characters to who I am, especially in the first and third parts—the impulses she has in Part II are not part of my personality.

One popular and vibrant niche in American fiction is Southern fiction, but some might argue that another salient pocket is East Coast fiction. What do you think are hallmarks of this type of novel (beside the obvious geographical element!)?
The first thing that comes to mind is claustrophobia. The characters tend to spend more time indoors, in small rooms, sort of gnawing on each other. Money is a character, and the alcohol flows freely. The talk is often cerebral and the characters entirely self-conscious, and most of the conflict is roiling far below the surface.

Father of the Rain is an intensely powerful and emotional read. As an author, do you ever find yourself overcome by the feelings and experiences of your characters, or do you keep yourself tightly reined?
This one was very emotional for me to write. Writing that first part, and I suppose the second part, too, could really bring me low for weeks at a time. I had to take many breaks.  I’m sure I could find a few notebook pages of the first draft that are buckled from tears. It was hard to be in that world. And pretty much every time I’ve read over the last section I’ve cried, too, at different moments for more joyful reasons.  Not to mention I think I was as in love with Jonathan as Daley was. I’d get into bed at night and sigh, “I just love Jonathan.” My husband was worried. But he knows the things I love about Jonathan are the qualities I love in him.

As an author, do you write the kind of books you like to read, or do you find yourself indulging in reading material that is quite different from the books you write?
My reading is all over the map. I read for beautiful sentences, for rich characters, for a great story, for an original voice, for an unfamiliar setting, for new ideas. It’s hard to find all that in one book, so I spread myself thin.

I’m not sure I know what kind of books I write. People always say my children look alike. But I can’t see that, just as I can’t see the similarities between my books or their styles. What kind of books do I write? I honestly don’t know. I think there is still a great gap between what I’m aiming for and what I reach. But that’s what keeps it exciting.

What are you working on next?
I’m working on a collection of short stories. Something that sells even less than a literary novel—just what my publisher wants to hear!

Author Lily King is known for her sensitive exploration of family ties. In her third book, Father of the Rain, she follows the tumultuous relationship of a father and a daughter. She answered a few questions for BookPage about her work, the place and ideas…

Somehow it seems fitting that a conversation with Gail Caldwell would be punctuated by the jubilant barks of a dog—fitting because her exquisite new memoir, Let’s Take the Long Way Home, is a celebration of friendship, both canine and human.

Critic and author Caldwell wrote the book as a moving tribute to her best friend, writer Caroline Knapp, who died of lung cancer in 2002 at the age of 42.

From her Cambridge, Massachusetts, home, Caldwell explains that the source of said barking is her fluffy Samoyed, Tula, whom she lovingly describes as “a devil in a white suit.” Apparently, Tula protests when Gail is on the phone and at present is loudly voicing her disapproval and demanding a game of fetch. “She has me very well trained,” Caldwell (halfway) jokes.

Knapp would probably have appreciated this interruption because it was while walking their dogs that she and Caldwell forged their enduring, life-altering friendship. Though their time together was cut short by Knapp’s death, that was not, as Caldwell tells us in Let’s Take the Long Way Home, the end of their story. She opens her book with this poignant pronouncement, “It’s an old, old story: I had a friend and we shared everything, and then she died and so we shared that, too.”

When they met in the early ’90s, Knapp and Caldwell, both single and living in Cambridge, instantly bonded over their shared love of books, dogs and being outdoors. Caldwell was a book critic for the Boston Globe—her work there earned her a Pulitzer Prize for criticism in 2001—while Knapp was the author of the acclaimed 1996 memoir Drinking: A Love Story [read our review of Knapp's Appetites].

As their friendship grew, they learned that, despite different upbringings and a nine-year age difference, they had much in common, including their past struggles with alcohol. Caldwell writes eloquently about alcoholism and sobriety but doesn’t linger on the subject. When she does offer insights, they are profound and spot-on, but, she says, “Once you’ve been sober 25 years, the story distills itself. . . . It was a baseline, but I didn’t need to tell that whole story.”

Instead, in Let’s Take the Long Way Home, Caldwell concentrates on the intimacies and intricacies of their extraordinary friendship. “About halfway through our friendship, I think I realized that it was, in fact, unique,” she says.

In the book, Caldwell writes, “Finding Caroline was like placing a personal ad for an imaginary friend, then having her show up at your door funnier and better than you had conceived.” This is not to say, however, that the relationship was without its share of conflict. Both women were deeply private and self-reliant—and both were writers. Rather than ignore problems, they faced them head on. “We loved to dissect and explain and process and wonder. Because we acknowledged the rivalry between us, Caroline and I went toward each other instead of away from each other.”

She says that welcoming their competitive spirit, a “great energy,” allowed them to challenge themselves physically and creatively. Caldwell, for instance, helped Knapp become a stronger swimmer, while Knapp introduced Caldwell to the Zen-like pleasures of rowing on the Charles River.

They learned other things, too, like how to be vulnerable and how to trust in and lean on someone you love—not easy things for such fiercely independent women. 

Caldwell especially appreciated Knapp’s unflinching honesty. “I’m worried you’re sick of me,” Caldwell says she once confided in Knapp, who responded matter-of-factly, “I’m not, but what if I were? Big deal.” She says, “I remember feeling like I could exhale; it was a wonderfully liberating moment.”

She also admired Knapp’s quiet intensity. “We could always match each other in terms of intensity,” she says. “She could outdo me in terms of just staying power, and I didn’t know many people who could. And I don’t just mean on the river, I mean on the phone. That was one of the things we recognized in each other from the beginning.”

She elaborates on this connection in the book. “For both of us, in different ways, the volume of the world had been turned up a notch,” Caldwell writes. “Even on that first afternoon we spent together—a four-hour walk through late-summer woods—I remember being moved by Caroline: It was a different response from simple affection or camaraderie.”

Readers will also find themselves moved by Caroline, and will almost certainly be moved to tears when she is diagnosed with lung cancer that has spread to her liver and brain. The description of her illness and death is spare but wrenching.

Caldwell, however, also laughingly recalls times when they acted more like insecure teenage girls than self-assured grown women, playfully exclaiming, “I think you’re prettier than me!” or “I like your arms better than mine.” She pauses at the memory of her friend’s strong, rower’s physique. “She had these beautiful arms,” she muses, and you sense that she can still see her with searing clarity in her mind’s eye, suntanned and laughing by the river.

When writing about the life and death of a close friend, it would be easy to lapse into sentimentality, but Caldwell avoids this pitfall, instead offering a meditation on grief that is tender but never mawkish. “I always remember her being skeptical about any story that did not tell how difficult human relationships are,” Caldwell says. “Grief itself gives you the great capacity to make everything perfect in the friendship . . . and I could hear Caroline saying, ‘You’ve got to talk about the struggles . . . you’ve got to talk about how hard this was.’ I owe that honesty in many ways to her.”

About the process of writing the Let’s Take the Long Way Home, Caldwell reflects, “I was very scared when I started to work on this. There was a point where I thought that I would never write about Caroline and me. And then there became a point after that when I thought I couldn’t not write about it. I really went from one extreme to the other.”

As she grappled with this dilemma, she says, “Caroline was really my compass.” For a time, Caldwell would walk in the evening with Clementine (her beloved, aged Samoyed, a major player in the book), look up at the sky and ask Caroline, “Can I do this?” The answer she received time and again proved as insistent as two-year-old Tula, who throughout this interview continues to nudge Gail with her snout in a dogged plea to play ball.

Caldwell explains that she felt compelled to share this story in part because, “One of the most important things to me is knowing that there are people out there for whom Caroline’s book [Drinking] meant a great deal . . . and now I get to give people the Caroline that I knew.”

Caldwell, who says her book is “a tribute to memory,” adds, “There were passages I wrote with tears streaming down my face . . . but there was something else about it that was restorative. There was some way it captured the love and intensity between us, encapsulated it, which I guess is what writing does.” Especially writing as luminous as this.  

Somehow it seems fitting that a conversation with Gail Caldwell would be punctuated by the jubilant barks of a dog—fitting because her exquisite new memoir, Let’s Take the Long Way Home, is a celebration of friendship, both canine and human.

Critic and author Caldwell wrote the book…

Gary Shteyngart thinks it might be time to buy a desk. Not as a reward for finally completing his super sad, super funny third novel. Not because he’s just been named to the New Yorker’s list of the 20 best fiction writers under the age of 40.

And not because he will soon move from his one-bedroom apartment on Manhattan’s Lower East Side to more spacious digs elsewhere in downtown Manhattan. No, it turns out that Gary Shteyngart needs a desk because he has a back problem.

“I write in bed,” Shteyngart explains during a call to his soon-to-be-abandoned apartment near the Williamsburg Bridge. “Wherever I go, I always write in bed. I began this novel in New York. Then I went to the American Academy in Berlin, which is in this horrible suburb outside Berlin, and everything I wrote there had to be trashed. Then I went back to New York and worked on it some more. But it wasn’t until I got a fellowship in Umbria that I really solved all my [novel’s] problems so that in a month and a half the book was done. My posture was so bad that I was in the ER with some back problems. I think it’s time to buy a desk.”

Adventures in a near-future America where reading is outmoded and everyone gets instant ratings for personality and sex appeal.

An exaggeration? Fans of Shteyngart’s wildly exuberant novels, The Russian Debutante’s Handbook (2002) and Absurdistan (2006), would not be surprised—or necessarily disappointed—if it were. The outsized characters (Misha of Absurdistan is the son of the 1,238th-richest man in Russia and weighs 325 pounds) and outsized events (Vladimir, the hero of Russian Debutante’s Handbook, concocts a hilariously improbable Ponzi scheme for the Russian mafia) show Shteyngart’s unique capacity for comic exaggeration in the service of pointed satire. Why not carry that over into real life?

After all, real-life chaos in post-Soviet Eastern Europe and Russia, where Shteyngart was born in 1972, shaped his first two novels. Real-life economic turbulence in the United States, where he and his parents moved in 1979, shapes his third book, Super Sad True Love Story.

“I wanted to write a novel where I took a little baby step away from the Russia theme and began working with America,” Shteyngart says. “The U.S.S.R. fell apart in such a violent, horrible way and that was the place where I was born, but I started to notice that the place where I was living, especially under the Bush administration, was becoming very frightening in and of itself. Some of the same things I remember from the Soviet Union are happening here: the hyper-patriotism, the economic decline. . . . So I started to think about what would happen if things began to really turn bad.”

Set mostly in New York City in the not-too-distant future, Super Sad True Love Story describes a country that is far enough from our own to be very funny but plausible enough to be simultaneously terrifying. It is a country after the collapse, a place dominated by youth culture, where our 39-year-old hero Lenny Abramov, who is both emotionally immature and physically over-the-hill, sells the technology of eternal life to high net worth individuals (HNWI) for the Post-Human Services division of a major multinational corporation. It is a place where the dollar has been supplanted by the Chinese yuan as the world currency. Where the bipartisan American Recovery Authority runs the country. Where everyone has a smart-phone-like äppärät that allows each individual to instantly rate the personality and sexual appeal of everyone else. Where corporate mergers have refined business to its most simplistic expression: Credit, Media and Retail. And where, to add insult to injury, Staten Island is more fashionable than Manhattan. It is, in short, a world where Shteyngart can romp and cavort, deploying his extraordinary gifts for invention.

“The book tries to be a book for our times, and our times move so quickly that there’s almost no present anymore, we’re living in the future all the time,” Shteyngart says. “What I’m trying to do is find a way to talk about it. “

But this is also a super sad love story. So the hapless Lenny pursues a much younger Eunice Park, the fashion-conscious daughter of Korean immigrants and a girl who expresses her every random thought through text messages and email. She is at first resistant to Lenny, then flattered, and then kinda, sorta for a while transformed by him. Throughout his depiction of Eunice, Shteyngart displays a brilliant satirist’s ear for language.

“I’m always trying to listen to the way people talk and the way they write messages and I’m trying to get that clickety-clack,” Shteyngart says “Given that this is the future where nobody can read, I think Eunice’s messages are actually quite beautiful and very introspective. . . . Eunice is a unique character. Despite the fact that she is so modern, she’s really old-fashioned at heart and maybe that’s why she connects with Lenny.”

In fact, Lenny even gets Eunice interested in reading a book. And in that moment lurks Shteyngart’s most radical critique of the future. Early in Super Sad True Love Story, on an airplane home, Lenny opens a book of Chekhov short stories. The young jock sitting next to him, “a senior Credit ape at Land O’LakesGMFord,” says, “Duder, that thing smells like wet socks.” Lenny, it seems, is one of the last people on Earth who is still seriously reading fiction.

“I’m not a Luddite,” Shteyngart says. “I’m speaking to you on an iPhone, I have computers lying around. But something terrible is being lost, I think. What that is is empathy for other human beings, which you can get only by entering their minds through something like a novel. As wonderful as film is, it still requires a camera lens. It does not allow you inside the mind of its creator, whereas a book still does. That experience requires a deep train of concentration and that deep train of concentration is what is being slowly chiseled away at by instant gratification forms of media.”

“Reading is now considered non-interactive as compared to, say, video games. But a good piece of fiction has enough stuff missing that it requires the reader to fill in many different emotions and feelings,” Shteyngart says. “The major difference with the new generation is that when you’re playing a video game, you are the hero or the heroine of the game. You are the avatar. You control things. But reading fiction, you give up a little bit of your own identity, your own authority. You meld with something else. And that is scary but exhilarating.”

And that, dear reader of fiction, is also the perfect description for Shteyngart’s new novel: scary but exhilarating.

_____

For a taste of Shteyngart's humor, don't miss the trailer for Super Sad Love Story:
 

 

 

 

Gary Shteyngart thinks it might be time to buy a desk. Not as a reward for finally completing his super sad, super funny third novel. Not because he’s just been named to the New Yorker’s list of the 20 best fiction writers under the age…

When Kate Racculia finished her master’s in fine arts from Emerson College, her first thought was, wow, this is great, now I can be a writer and write fulltime! “Then I realized I had to pay off my loans,” laughs Racculia. 

As a result of this buzz-killing reality check, she found a 9-to-5 job in financial services marketing in Boston, and spent two and a half years’ worth of weekends writing what would become her first novel, This Must Be the Place. It’s a book bursting with ideas about grief, choices and what it means to belong, anchored by the quirky, exquisite story of Mona Jones, baker of wedding cakes and young proprietor of an upstate New York boardinghouse, and her teenage daughter Oneida, two perfectly content outsiders in their small town of Ruby Falls.

Racculia's remarkable debut is book bursting with ideas about grief, choices and what it means to belong.

Mona has a secret she’s held tight for more than a decade, one she shares only with her estranged friend Amy. When Amy is electrocuted while working on a Hollywood movie set, her grief-stricken husband Arthur realizes he didn’t know much about his wife at all. Determined to unravel his wife’s foggy past, Arthur travels to Ruby Falls with a pink shoebox filled with clues that only Mona understands, including an old postcard on which Amy wrote:

Mona Jones, I’m sorry. I should have told you. You knew me better than anyone—I think you knew me better than me. Don’t worry, I swear I’m happier dead. Anyway, I left you the best parts of myself. You know where to look.

Throughout her remarkably self-assured debut, Racculia sprinkles allusions to her childhood inspirations, including repeated references to special effects master Ray Harryhausen. It’s only fitting for this self-described “bit of a geek.”

“I feel like people have very different definitions of a geek versus a nerd versus a dork,” Racculia says matter-of-factly. “I think a geek is someone who is really passionate and really interested in things. I love learning things, knowing things. I love trivia. I’m a super science fiction fan. I grew up watching Star Trek and Dark Crystals.”

As an only child in a close-knit family in suburban Syracuse, she grew up writing from the time she could put her thoughts to paper—or rope someone else into doing it for her.

“I would dictate things to people who could write, my grandparents and parents, and then make little illustrations,” she says. “I think I’ve always thought of myself as a writer. I was lucky enough to grow up in a family that never said, ‘Kate, you shouldn’t go to school for that.’ I always had support from my family, teachers and friends.”

Considering Racculia’s own idyllic childhood and close-knit family (the only two readings on her publicity schedule so far are Boston and Syracuse, where extended family will pack the house—accordingly, she’s selecting non-racy excerpts to read), This Must Be the Place is at times surprisingly dark, tinged with regret over choices not made, paths not taken. After growing up together, inseparable, Amy and Mona run away one summer to the Jersey shore. Without consulting Mona, Amy makes a choice there that changes both their lives forever. 

Admirably, Racculia didn’t shy away from drawing out the imperfections in her characters, especially Amy.

“[In] a lot of fiction, when someone dies it’s very sad and books about grief are about letting that person go. There’s this tendency to make that person truly perfect, this wonderful person who has left us. I wanted to write about a person who made some horrible decisions,” Racculia says. “At first you see [Amy] through Arthur, you meet her and you like her, and then you find out more and like her less.”

That’s not to say This Must Be the Place is all doom and gloom. In Oneida, Racculia draws a particularly poignant, vibrant portrait of an awkward, frizzy-haired teenager just beginning to come into her own.

Oneida puts a tentative toe in the treacherous waters of the teenage dating pool when she is paired with fellow outcast Eugene on a class project. Eugene has his own issues: His father, a security guard, steals artwork from the museums he patrols and replaces the art with forgeries. His mother and sister spend all their free time rehearsing with their rock band. Eugene’s ham-handed wooing of Oneida is one of the highlights of the book, particularly when he blurts out to her, “If I don’t have real sex soon, I will die.”

“Eugene is kind of so clueless about who he really is,” says Racculia. “It was so fun to write about that family. It was the purest, completely made up part of the story. Obviously, I’ve never met an art forger.”

It’s this complete originality and fresh voice that has generated considerable buzz about Racculia’s novel. Her parents recently sent her a photo of the book’s poster in the window of a Barnes and Noble bookstore where she worked while in college.

“It’s so strange,” she said. “My high school friend posted that picture to Facebook. Friends my dad went to high school with were sending me pictures.”

It’s a time in her life that she calls “exciting and totally surreal,” an excitement that’s likely to grow as word spreads about her remarkable new book. 

When Kate Racculia finished her master’s in fine arts from Emerson College, her first thought was, wow, this is great, now I can be a writer and write fulltime! “Then I realized I had to pay off my loans,” laughs Racculia. 

As a result of this…

Megan McDonald’s Judy Moody series has sold millions of copies, captivating early readers with the oddball adventures of a feisty third-grader. In the series’ ninth installment, Judy Moody, Girl Detective, Judy and her little brother, Stink, find themselves in the middle of a mystery: Mr. Chips (a dog) has gone missing! Luckily, Judy is a student of Nancy Drew, and it doesn’t take her long to start looking for clues.

The popular series will reach an even larger audience when Judy Moody and the NOT Bummer Summer—the movie—is released next summer.

McDonald took a few minutes to give us her take on the new book, Judy’s resilience and the upcoming film adaptation.

Was your personality like Judy’s when you were in third grade?
Do I have to admit it? I’m moody! Judy and I are a lot alike—we both have messy hair, can turn anything—a Band-Aid, sock monkey, scabs, ABC gum—into a collection, and yes, I once went to school in my pajamas. I would like to think that Judy and I are both a good friend and a good sister, despite our shortcomings. And . . . our favorite color is purple.

How were you different?
Judy is a bossy BIG sister (based on my four older sisters!) and I’m the youngest, like Stink. I think Judy is much more outspoken and sure of herself than I was at her age. She has a strong voice, and is not afraid to speak up with creative ideas. She is not crushed by disappointment—she picks herself up and keeps going, even though lots of things don’t turn out the way she’d hoped. Judy certainly has her failings, and one of them was spelling. I, on the other hand, was a Spelling Bee champ from way back. Can you spell pneumonoultramicroscopicsilicovolcanoconiosis?

In your opinion, what is Judy’s best quality?
Resilience. Call it lively, spirited, energetic, feisty, or go-getting . . . I set a lot of obstacles in Judy’s way, but she always meets the challenge, and in the end, overcomes them with humor and imagination.

Judy has a lot of opinions on “Rule Number One” of being a good detective. (From “A good detective does not get in a bad mood,” to “Never give up!”) In your opinion, what’s the real Rule Number One of being a good detective?
My own favorite Rule Number One is: NEVER leave home without your S.O.S. lipstick! (For writing a HELP message in red in case you find yourself in danger.)

Rule Number One-est of Them All: TRUST YOUR INNER NANCY DREW!

What’s your favorite Nancy Drew mystery? Why is Judy so drawn to the girl detective?
2010 marks the 80th anniversary of my girlhood favorite—Nancy Drew! Who doesn’t remember Nancy and her blue convertible Roadster, taking on ghosts, villains and jewel thieves of every stripe! The clever, gutsy, independent teenage sleuth has impacted generations of women, from Supreme Court Justices Sonia Sotomayor and Sandra Day O’Connor to Hillary Clinton, Oprah Winfrey and Diane Sawyer. My favorite Nancy Drew book would have to be . . . #21: Secret in the Old Attic. A dead man’s letters, secret clues, an unpublished musical manuscript . . . great stuff!

When I was a girl reading Nancy Drew, she felt so grown up and independent to me. She had all these amazing adventures in faraway settings, AND she knew how to drive—a convertible, no less! I think Judy is drawn to that same spirit of adventure—the idea that there’s a mystery, with a dash of danger, around every corner.

Judy takes her place next to a slew of beloved kid heroines, from Ramona Quimby to Harriet the Spy. Has your writing been inspired at all by other authors or characters?
Katherine Paterson inspired and mentored me at a young age, long before I ever became published. She still inspires me as a person, and as a writer.

As for characters who had an important impact on me—Jo March, Ellen Tebbitts, Harriet the Spy, and of course, Nancy Drew.

Of all the Judy Moody books, is there one that sticks out as your favorite? Why?
If I had to pick one, my favorite would be Judy Moody Saves the World. I love the books that show the big-hearted side of Judy Moody, and who doesn’t think the planet needs a little saving right now?

Young readers have a lot of entertainment options, from smartphones, to the Wii, to over-booked after-school activities. In spite of so many distractions, why are kids excited about Judy Moody?
She’s funny, and makes us laugh. We see ourselves in her. Judy can always be trusted to TRY and do the right thing, but her adventures along the way are hilarious and true, like life. I do worry that reading has to compete so much with technology, sports and other activities, but I believe there’s nothing better than curling up with a good book. Reading feeds the imagination; my hope is that kids will always make room for a good story.

How did you react when you learned that Judy Moody is being turned into a movie? Are there any actors you envision as Judy and Stink?
I’m Joyful-on-top-of-Spaghetti-and-the-World that Judy Moody is being made into a movie—Judy Moody and the NOT Bummer Summer. A feature film will reach countless new Judy Moody readers. I’m kind of hoping that Judy and Stink will be actors we haven’t seen much of yet—so that they really embody and become the characters in the books.

For the movie, you share a screenwriting credit with Kathy Waugh. How is the screenwriting process different from writing a book?
Wildly different. Screenwriting is completely visual—I had to constantly play each scene like a movie in my head. The biggest challenge for me in scripting a movie is that the characters always have to be doing something—in action. I LOVE most of all to write dialogue, and there are rarely more than a few lines of dialogue at a time in the script. It was quite an education for me.

What are you working on now? Can you give us a hint about Judy’s next adventure?
Look for an on-set, behind-the-scenes, Judy Moody Goes to Hollywood kind of diary . . . Her next adventure? The good news is . . . it’s about BAD news. Judy gets tired of all the bad news in the world, and starts her own GOOD NEWS newspaper. The bad news is . . . I can’t tell you any more because it’s a work in progress!

Megan McDonald’s Judy Moody series has sold millions of copies, captivating early readers with the oddball adventures of a feisty third-grader. In the series’ ninth installment, Judy Moody, Girl Detective, Judy and her little brother, Stink, find themselves in the middle of a mystery: Mr.…

There’s a slip of paper, pulled from a fortune cookie, taped to Cynthia Lord’s computer monitor. It says, “Someday your talents will be recognized and suitably rewarded.”

Happily, those encouraging words turned out to be prescient ones. “I put the fortune on my computer monitor as a joke,” Lord says in an interview from her home in Maine. “But I sold my first novel, Rules, two weeks later.”

That fortune was still around when Rules was named a 2007 Newbery Honor Book, and it remains with the author today. When it’s time to discard a computer monitor, “I peel [the fortune] off and apply it to the new one!”

The seeming magic of superstition doesn’t just figure into Lord’s life; it’s a central element of her heartwarming second novel, Touch Blue. The layered story is narrated by 11-year-old Tess Brooks, a smart, earnest girl who loves her island home and is determined to keep things they way they’ve always been, whether through wishing, working or some combination thereof.

Tess’ beloved island is off the coast of Maine, a place where lobster fishing is a common occupation and kids of all ages learn together in a single schoolhouse. Tess’ mother is in danger of losing her teaching job, and the community, its school: The state is threatening to close it down because of low enrollment. If the island doesn’t get more students, its residents will have to move to the mainland and leave behind their homes, livelihoods and special way of life.

Their solution? Take in foster children in an effort to save the school and do good at the same time. Although it might seem like a wild idea, “a little school in Maine in the 1960s did that to save their school,” Lord says. And she knows what it’s like to worry about such things, having taught at a Maine island school in her pre-author days. “My books always have personal experiences in them,” she says, adding that her commute from the mainland “was very romantic . . . except for December through March.”

In Touch Blue, Tess’ new foster brother arrives on a boat (in nice weather, fortunately), and she’s very excited to meet him, not least because she’s read books about foster children, like The Great Gilly Hopkins and Bud, Not Buddy. At first, she’s disappointed by 13-year-old Aaron’s reticence, not to mention his skepticism of her neighbors’ interest in knowing everyone’s business. But over time, despite run-ins with a bully and somewhat stressful preparations for a talent show, Tess learns she can’t control everything, and Aaron grows to like being around people who care enough to meddle.

Under Lord’s writerly hand, those realizations bring their own kind of comfort, the sort that even age-old superstitions cannot provide. “As a kid, you think you’re not in control of the things you care about. Superstitions are one way that people deal with that,” Lord says.

To that end, there are superstitious sayings at the start of every chapter in Touch Blue (finding them all, Lord said, “took a lot of research!”). The book’s title is drawn from one such saying—“Touch blue and your wish will come true”—and, in keeping with the book’s real-life feel, Lord notes that “lobster fishermen are often very superstitious.”

Like the fishermen—and the characters in Touch Blue—Lord loves the ocean. “I can even smell it from my front yard. It’s always so different. . . . Sometimes it’s blue, or gray or green. You never know what you’ll see.”

Her love for the water began in her childhood in New Hampshire, when she lived near a lake. It was part of everyday life, whether swimming or ice skating. “I was a voracious reader,” she adds. “I loved to lay down on the wharf and read all afternoon.”

Her next book will be set in New Hampshire, in “those beautiful mountains” around her childhood home. But first, she’ll be spending more time on the islands of Maine: Lord says she does some 40 school visits a year, and for Touch Blue she’ll go to schools like the one in the book.

Surely, thanks to what she learned writing Touch Blue—not to mention the fortune she has taped to her computer—Lord will keep in mind the superstition from chapter three: “Start your journey with your right foot and good luck will walk with you.”

There’s a slip of paper, pulled from a fortune cookie, taped to Cynthia Lord’s computer monitor. It says, “Someday your talents will be recognized and suitably rewarded.”

Happily, those encouraging words turned out to be prescient ones. “I put the fortune on my computer monitor…

Girls with gumption and a "can do" spirit will get a big kick out of Holly George-Warren’s The Cowgirl Way, which provides a fascinating history of the Wild West and cowgirls, from big names like Annie Oakley to lesser-known gals of the 21st century.

Chapters are interspersed with photos, quotes and memorabilia that nicely complement the text. And though the book's target audience is tweens (ages 10 and up), teens and adults will also enjoy George-Warren’s meticulously researched history of American cowgirls.

The author has long been interested in the Wild West culture. Read on for her take on rodeo fever, pursuing dreams—and why Lady Gaga embodies the cowgirl spirit.

You have written several books on cowgirls, cowboys and the Wild West. What sparked your interest in this culture?
As a girl growing up in North Carolina in the ‘60s, I became fascinated by cowgirls and cowboys and the West. My family used to stop at a tourist attraction called the Buffalo Ranch, which displayed Western artifacts, and real live buffalo grazed in a cow pasture. Plus I really liked watching Westerns on TV and reading biographies of historical figures from the Old West.

Your book begins with a quote from Connie Douglas Reeves: “Always saddle your own horse!” This quote has also been adopted as the motto for the National Cowgirl Museum and Hall of Fame. What does this line say about cowgirls? Why is it important?
That mandate emphasizes self-sufficiency and independence, and it epitomizes the “can do” spirit of cowgirls. That’s a great lesson for all of us.

What can young readers of The Cowgirl Way learn from cowgirls of the past?
Women in the West had to overcome numerous obstacles to pursue their dreams. They had to break down barriers that prevented women from participating fully in American life. By learning about the courage and tenacity of these Western women, hopefully it will inspire [young readers] to overcome challenges in their own lives.

You quote Florence Hughes Randolph as saying, “I had the rodeo fever, so I left Hollywood and went back to Texas.” Why do you think the cowgirl lifestyle appealed to young women in the early 20th century?
During that time, not many women could work and/or travel independently, and becoming a rodeo cowgirl opened up their options. It also gave women a chance to prove themselves in a traditionally male arena. And as America became more urbanized, ranch life signified freedom and wide-open spaces.

Who is your favorite cowgirl from history? Why?
It’s a tie between Annie Oakley and Lucille Mulhall. Each worked hard to reach the top in an area where women had been shut out, and they opened doors for other women. They were smart, charismatic and courageous, and they got to travel the world and live adventurous lives.

You mention that former Supreme Court justice Sandra Day O’Connor used to be a cowgirl. Which other public figures embody the cowgirl “spunk, adventurousness and courage”?
Our First Lady Michelle Obama, filmmakers Kathryn Bigelow and documentarian Barbara Kopple, Mississippi teenager Constance McMillen and Lady Gaga, just to name a few . . .

What kind of cowgirl would you like to be? A pioneer? An outlaw? Rodeo star? Show girl for Buffalo Bill?
I would have enjoyed being a singing cowgirl like Dale Evans and Patsy Montana, or a ranch woman and photojournalist like Evelyn Cameron.

What is your next project?
I’m writing a biography of the late Alex Chilton, who first found fame as the 16-year-old lead singer of the Box Tops in 1967 and went on to form the influential band Big Star before embarking on a solo career.

Girls with gumption and a "can do" spirit will get a big kick out of Holly George-Warren’s The Cowgirl Way, which provides a fascinating history of the Wild West and cowgirls, from big names like Annie Oakley to lesser-known gals of the 21st century.

Chapters are…

Since Scott Simon has chronicled the American experience for years as the host of NPR’s “Weekend Edition,” it seems only fitting that he should apply his prizewinning reportorial skills to a personal experience that has enriched his life beyond his wildest dreams: adopting a child.

In his new memoir Baby, We Were Meant for Each Other, the congenial moderator invites us into the family he and his wife Caroline created when they adopted two Chinese daughters based on little more than thumb-size snapshots. Being a gracious host, he also shares other adoption stories within his circle of friends that includes sportswriter Frank Deford, Freakonomics author Steve Levitt and celebrated fashion designer Alexander Julian.

Elise, now 7, and Paulina, a precocious 3½, have become the center of Simon’s world. “I am the spoiler-in-chief,” admits the proud papa without hesitation or remorse. Despite the fact that he and his wife saved their daughters from what he calls “a life too terrible to contemplate,” it is Simon who feels lucky.

Why are we pouring money into a scientific procedure to create children when there are millions of children in this world already who need love?”

Having failed to start a family “in the traditional Abraham-and-Sarah-begat manner,” the Simons submitted to the prodding protocols of a fertility clinic, without success.

“At some point, we just looked at each other and thought, why are we pouring money into a scientific procedure to create children when we know there are millions of children in this world already who need love?” he recalls. “I wish that people would take a look at adoption early on in the process of trying to have a family rather than as a last resort.”

Their search for a family led them to China, land of the controversial one-child-per-family policy that has placed a premium on male offspring at the heartbreaking expense of tens of thousands of abandoned little girls each year. That it took 18 months to adopt Elise and two years to adopt Paulina frustrated Simon beyond words.

“The Chinese permit an astonishingly small percentage of orphaned and abandoned children to be adopted,” he says. “To me, that is absolutely flabbergasting. The government policy on adoption is addressing political, economic and social goals that have almost nothing to do with the best interests of children. Now that we have two little girls from China who are part of our family, we need to speak out about it.”

“I’m amazed that today people can get scolded for using a paper cup and throwing it away and yet somehow we haven’t fathomed all the youngsters in the world who need homes.”

Simon describes the anxious hours of waiting in a Chinese hotel room before they could take their daughter Elise in their arms. Impending fatherhood brought its share of doubts.

“I love children, but I understood even then that there is a real difference between playing peek-a-boo in a public place and then being able to get up and go about your business,” he recalls. “I knew I could be a pretty successful play partner, but I think I was concerned whether I would be a good and devoted parent. But the transformation was pretty quick.”

The Simon sisters are in most ways typical American kids; they attend public school, prefer ice cream with extra sprinkles and believe in the Tooth Fairy. “They’re very, very bright,” Simon crows, then quickly adds: “One of the other advantages of adoption is that you can brag on your children without any concern that you’re congratulating your own genetic contribution.”

Still, he’s aware that childhood can slip by faster than a half-hour newscast. “The older they get, the sharper their questions get about not just what happened to them but what happens to other people there,” he says.

Those are questions the Simon family will tackle together.
“I’m sometimes amazed today that people can get scolded for using a paper cup and throwing it away and yet somehow we haven’t fathomed all the youngsters in the world who need homes,” he says. “There are at least 15 million children who have been orphaned and abandoned. We’ve really come to think of it as one of the great unfinished endeavors of the world.”
It is Simon’s fervid hope that the joy he has found in adopting two daughters from a faraway land will in some small way inspire others to do the same.

Since Scott Simon has chronicled the American experience for years as the host of NPR’s “Weekend Edition,” it seems only fitting that he should apply his prizewinning reportorial skills to a personal experience that has enriched his life beyond his wildest dreams: adopting a child.

In…

Imagine living within the confines of a 11×11 room, the only natural light coming from a skylight, a television your only link to the outside world. That’s just what Irish-Canadian novelist Emma Donoghue does in Room, a book so original and daring it recently landed on the longlist for the Man Booker Prize.

To five-year-old Jack, Room is his entire world, where he was born and where he lives with Ma, where he learns and plays. It is also where, at night, Jack crawls into Wardrobe to sleep, and to hide when Old Nick visits his mother (when the bed squeaks). For Jack, Room is the only home he’s ever known, but for Ma it’s a prison where she’s been held captive for seven years after being abducted as a teen.

Told in the pitch-perfect voice of a five-year-old boy raised in captivity, Donoghue’s stunning novel offers a unique portrait of one mother’s fierce devotion.

If this sounds like the stuff of tabloids, luridly sensational or gimmicky, in Donoghue’s talented hands it’s anything but. Told from Jack’s perspective, Room turns the usual victim/survivor story on its head, transforming it into something else entirely—a meditation on the nature of reality and a testament to the ferocity of a mother’s love.

In a conversation from her home in London, Ontario, Donoghue readily admits, in a lilting Irish brogue, that readers might at first balk at the idea of a five-year-old narrator, but believes that they will “relax into it after a few pages.” A native of Dublin, Donoghue received a doctorate in English literature from the University of Cambridge before launching her writing career. In 1998, she moved to Canada, where she and her partner are raising their two young children.

Her son was five while she was writing Room, and she says, “The dialogue came very easily because I know what they’re like—five-year-old boys in particular. I wanted to get Jack at that moment when [children] suddenly move from the very concrete, ‘where’s my next snack coming from,’ to the big questions. At that age they have this astonishing ability to tackle abstract issues and then swing right back to concerns about toys.”

Donoghue perfectly captures that liminal stage. Jack’s voice is wholly believable and pitch-perfect, and in him Donoghue has created a narrator who is endearing without being cloying, one whose phrasing, thoughts and insights are by turns touching and astute.

Coming across as sentimental or cutesy was, Donoghue says, her biggest fear. “Getting the readers to care is a challenge with any novel, but with this novel I knew they would care when they worked out what the situation was, so then my challenge was to rein in the sentiment.”

A writer of literary historical novels (Slammerkin, The Sealed Letter, Life Mask) Donoghue admits that Room marks a dramatic departure for her. “I’ve often been inspired by fact in the past, but it’s never happened to me in the present. I happened to hear about the Fritzl case in Austria, but that just gave me the hook, the notion of a child raised in a room not realizing that there was an outside world. That’s as much as I took from it.” (Interestingly, Donoghue had already completed the novel before the Jaycee Dugard case in California came to light.)

“I read up about a lot of those kinds of cases, but I deliberately kept the story in my book very different from all of them because I really didn’t want the book to be in any way like true crime,” she says. “I was interested in boiling down those situations to the essence of confinement and captivity.”

Donoghue stresses that she never intended for Room to be a realistic depiction of life in captivity. To that effect, she deliberately made Ma and Jack’s living conditions far better than in real-life cases, making their quarters an above-ground building with proper light and ventilation. She also didn’t want Room to “read like a treatise on male violence.”

“I didn’t want it to be about child abuse or about appalling neglect,” Donoghue says. “I wanted it to be just about the locked door. What if everything else is fine, but you’re locked away from the world?”

At times, Room has the feel of a macabre fairy tale—like a modern-day Rumpelstiltskin. “There’s no denying those overtones,” the author says. “I deliberately chose a common name for Jack because I wanted him to be like a hero in a fairy tale.” She’s quick to add, however, that though Room can be read on many levels, she’d rather readers understand it as a “real” story with authentic, true-to-life characters.

Above all, she explains, she was “trying to create a kind of test case for a mother’s love.” Strange as it may sound, Donoghue says that the simplicity of the story—a mother and child spending uninterrupted time together—is what has resonated with readers most. “Oddly enough, people have responded in a kind of nostalgic way. Nobody wants to idealize imprisonment, but many of us have such complicated lives, and we try to fit parenting in alongside work and socializing. . . . We try and have so many lives at once, and we run ourselves ragged.”

“Today parenting is so self-conscious and worried, so I wanted to ask the question, how minimally could you do it? One parent in one room. Would that do?”

Room seems to say yes, at least for a time—and with a young, resourceful mother like Ma. (A note to all mothers: prepare to feel inadequate as you marvel at Ma’s mothering skills and instincts.) “She really civilizes and humanizes Jack; he’s not a feral child,” says Donoghue. “She passes along her cultural knowledge to him, from religion to tooth-brushing to rules.”

Despite limited space and resources, by day, the two engage in “Phys Ed,” cooking lessons, model-making, storytelling, crafts, and standing under their skylight and screaming (for help, though Jack thinks it’s a game). Although they watch television for education and distraction, Ma limits its use, warning that it can turn your brain to mush.

As a reader, it’s easy to be lulled by the rhythm of their days until the horror of their situation reasserts itself (and the harrowing second half of the book begins). “It is a nightmare for Ma, but she’s managed to create an idyll for Jack within it, so she benefits too. She gets to escape from her situation by entering into this fantasy that they live in this world of only two people,” Donoghue says. “In a way they are their own society.”

This unique relationship gets right to the heart of Room—a book that illuminates the intimate bond between mother and child, and finds beauty in the unbearable.

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Read Emma Donoghue's Behind the Book essay on Room.

Imagine living within the confines of a 11x11 room, the only natural light coming from a skylight, a television your only link to the outside world. That’s just what Irish-Canadian novelist Emma Donoghue does in Room, a book so original and daring it recently landed on the longlist for the Man Booker Prize.

Newbery Medalist Kate DiCamillo and #1 New York Times best-selling author Alison McGhee will make kids smile, giggle and demand pancakes with Bink & Gollie, the story of two best friends.

Bink is short and blonde and Gollie is tall and brunette, and the girls are different in other ways, too. Bink lives in a cottage at the bottom of a tree. Gollie lives in a modern tree house. Bink is loud and enjoys making unusual purchases, such as crazy rainbow socks or a fish to carry around. Gollie is level-headed and loves making pancakes. Together they make marvelous companions, sharing hilarious banter and a love for roller skates.

Bink & Gollie is the first collaboration between DiCamillo and McGhee—who were friends before they became co-authors. The two authors took the time to answer some questions from BookPage on working together, adventures with friends and how the authors and the characters have plenty in common.


How long have you known each other? How did the idea for this story come about?
Kate: Alison and I have known each other since the summer of 2001. One evening we were sitting around talking about how we wished we had a good story to work on. Alison said: Why don’t we work on a story together? I said: A story about what? And Alison said: A story about a short girl and a tall girl.

Alison: If memory serves me correctly, and it doesn’t always, Kate and I met in the fall of 2001 at the former Figlio’s restaurant in Minneapolis. We were laughing within a minute of meeting—always a good sign.

Can you explain the logistics of the collaboration?
Kate: Every morning for, I don’t know how long, I came over to Alison’s house and we sat in her office and wrote the stories “out loud” together. We yelled at each other and made each other laugh. It was a lot of fun.

Alison: I remember wanting to write a book with someone, the someone being Kate, and we decided to write about two friends. We had no idea how to begin this project—neither of us had ever collaborated with another writer—and I’m pretty sure that we began by giving our two friends a sock, just to see what they’d do with it. And it went from there.

We wrote the whole thing together. We set specific two-hour time slots to work on it, and the rule was that we were never allowed to work on it when we were apart. Sometimes we’d start to zip revision ideas back and forth over email, but that was breaking the rules, so we’d stop ourselves immediately.

Sometimes we were stumped, sometimes everything flowed easily, sometimes we argued, but we almost always laughed and laughed and laughed.

How old are Bink and Gollie? Their parents are never in the picture—will they show up in future books?
Kate: I don’t know what Alison thinks, but I very strongly doubt that we will ever see the parents of Bink or Gollie. However, I do think it would be fun to make Tony Fucile draw portraits of the parental units and have those portraits sitting on Bink’s mantel or in Gollie’s kitchen. Glowering. A little.

Alison: I’m not exactly sure how old the girls are, but I can pretty much guarantee that their parents will never show up. That would mess up the fun. I do, however, very much like Kate’s idea of having Tony draw their portraits.

You’re very clever about explaining the meaning of certain words in the dialogue (such as “compromise”). Do you hope that kids will learn new vocabulary by reading Bink & Gollie?
Kate: What would make me happiest is if kids read these books and think: there is so much to love in the world; and words are so much fun.

Alison: I don't care if they do or not. May God strike me down with a hammer on the head before I write a book with a teach-y goal! What I hope is that the book delights children. What I hope is that they laugh and laugh and laugh, just as we did when we wrote them.

Have either of you ever worked with a co-author before? How is this experience different from writing a book by yourself?
Kate: I’ve never worked with a co-author before. Writing for me is a pretty scary thing, so it was a huge comfort to have someone in the room working with me. It became less like work and more like play.

Alison: I had never worked with another writer before. I loved the experience, loved loved loved it. It was so comforting to have someone else there doing the work with me—writing is such a lonely thing to do.

Growing up, did either of you have a friendship like the one portrayed in Bink & Gollie? What’s the weirdest adventure you ever went on?
Kate: The weirdest adventure? They’ve all been weird. And yes, I have had many friendships that are similar to Bink and Gollie’s. I’m always looking for someone to feed me. And to make me laugh.

Alison: Growing up, my best friend Cindy was very short, whereas I was very tall, but the dynamic was very different from Bink & Gollie’s friendship. What’s my weirdest adventure? Yikes, there’ve been so very many. Perhaps the pig+vegetable+Taiwanese-army-guys boat ride to the island off the coast of Taiwan qualifies as the weirdest. Or at least the most seasick.

Bink is short and blonde and Gollie is tall and brunette—not totally unlike the authors! Any other similarities between the two of you and Bink and Gollie?
Kate: Like Bink, I am short, loud and perpetually hungry. Also I (like Bink) tend to be a tiny bit clueless.

Alison: Like Gollie, I love adventurous travel. I also love pancakes, and making pancakes for other people. You would definitely find me in the airy treetop as opposed to below ground. We're both good in a crisis. And beyond that, Gollie and I are less self-assured than we look on the surface.

The illustrations are just wonderful, and certain details really add to the story. (For example, Gollie’s modern house in the tree’s branches versus Bink’s little cottage at the tree’s base.) How closely did you work with Tony Fucile? Did he have free rein to illustrate as he wished, or did you give him suggestions?
Kate: We made some illustrator notes on the text (that Bink is short and Gollie is tall, that we thought that Bink would live at the bottom of the tree and that Gollie would live at the top) but most of what you see is just the sheer, absolute, happy genius of Tony Fucile.
Alison: Beyond telling Tony that Gollie was tall and Bink was short, and giving him a few personality tips, Tony had free rein. And didn't he do a glorious job?

What are you working on now? Do have any individual projects planned?
Kate: I’m at work on a novel. I’m hoping that it’s a funny novel. Some days it seems funny. Other days it doesn’t.

Alison: For children: I’m writing a picture book about the Big Dipper and a novel about a cricket, a firefly and a vole. For grownups: I’m writing poems.

Newbery Medalist Kate DiCamillo and #1 New York Times best-selling author Alison McGhee will make kids smile, giggle and demand pancakes with Bink & Gollie, the story of two best friends.

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