A remarkable exploration of storytelling, fame and the Nigerian American experience, acclaimed science fiction writer Nnedi Okorafor’s Death of the Author surprises all the way to its brilliant ending.
A remarkable exploration of storytelling, fame and the Nigerian American experience, acclaimed science fiction writer Nnedi Okorafor’s Death of the Author surprises all the way to its brilliant ending.
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“Some stories are crafted as if by blueprint, built line by line and brick by brick. There are stories born of angst, wrung painfully from an author’s mind onto pages that, in the end, are more of bandage than paper. Then there are those stories that seek the writer, drifting through time and space like thistle seed until they find fertile ground on which to land and take root. This is one such story. It found me during my second week in Italy.” Excerpt from The Last Promise We went to Italy because my wife, Keri, and I had reached a point in our lives where comfort and predictability had become suffocating to our souls. At the same time, our family was growing up, and it was time for an experience that we could all share before breaking off into our own lives. At these times it’s best to take our lives by the corners and shake them. Leaving America was not easy. Italy was a big shake.

My wife and I found a cottage in the Chianti countryside a few kilometers outside of Italy’s cultural heart the city of Florence and I began considering ideas for my next book. It seems peculiar to me now, but I had no intention of writing anything set in Italy. In fact, after the first several months in the country, I was even less inclined to do so since it seemed to me that every American in Florence wanted to write about Italy. Then something happened.

I was near the grounds of the Roman Forum when I came upon the ruins of the temple of Vesta. I learned from my guidebook that Vesta was the goddess of hearth and home and an important deity to the ancient Romans. The keepers of the temple were the Vestal Virgins, a small group of women chosen to be priestesses to Vesta. The Vestal Virgins were considered holy and given great wealth, power and honor, but there was a price. The Vestals were required to take three vows; the first was allegiance to the Goddess Vesta, the second was to keep the Temple’s flame (symbolic of Rome’s families) burning at all times. The third and last promise was that they would, for the sake of Rome’s families, forsake love, taking vows of chastity. If a Vestal was to break this final vow, punishment was severe. First, the Vestal’s lover would be whipped to death. Then the Vestal would be bound in burial linens, given a loaf of bread and an oil lamp, and taken to the field of the damned where she was buried alive.

Eighteen of the Vestals suffered this fate. In spite of the threat of losing honor, power, wealth and even their lives, these women still chose to risk love. This dramatic illustration of the powerful conflict between the human need for love and the commitment to God and family intrigued me. I wanted to write about it.

With the premise for the novel in mind, the setting for my story presented itself a few weeks later when I met a young American woman lounging by the pool at a Chianti country club. I learned that she had, in America, married a wealthy, handsome Italian man, had a child, then, after several years, followed him from her home in the States back to his family’s beautiful villa in Tuscany. While in America, he had been romantic and caring and had treated her as an equal, but once back in Italy he seemed to change. As time passed she saw less of him. Then his attitude toward women seemed to change, as well. One day he announced, “It is not right that I help with the child or the home. It is your job. You need to serve me. That is how it is here.” Hoping to keep their marriage alive, for their child’s sake, she tried fitting into the new paradigm, but found herself desperately unhappy. When she told her husband that she wanted a divorce so she could go back home to America, her husband told her that he would not allow her to take their child with her. Italian law prevented her from taking her child out of the country without her husband’s permission. She had a choice, live a loveless life with her child or find love and break her family apart. Thousands of years later here was a modern woman facing the same dilemma that the Vestal Virgins faced in ancient Rome. Using her real life dilemma as my story’s setting, I wondered what would happen if she, deprived of love, fell in love with somebody else. What would she do? When I began to write my novel, The Last Promise, I set out to answer that question.

Richard Paul Evans was an advertising executive in Utah when he wrote his first book, The Christmas Box, which went on to become a number one bestseller. The Last Promise (Dutton, $22.95, 320 pages, ISBN 0525946969), which goes on sale November 11, is his seventh novel.

"Some stories are crafted as if by blueprint, built line by line and brick by brick. There are stories born of angst, wrung painfully from an author's mind onto pages that, in the end, are more of bandage than paper. Then there are those stories…
Behind the Book by

In 2009, my then-eight-year-old daughter brought home a few slices of Amish Friendship Bread on a paper plate. “It’s so good,” she insisted. Then she pulled out a Ziploc bag of starter and a page (a page!) of instructions. Now if you’ve never seen (or smelled) a bag of fermenting batter, well, let’s just say that it’s something you don’t ever forget.

 It didn’t take long for me to figure out that this was essentially a culinary chain letter, a “bake and share” routine that grew exponentially as you passed the starter on to not one, but three more people. I could see people running in the opposite direction, a bit like I wanted to do at that moment.

Still, my daughter held the plate in front of me, patient. I broke off a corner of the bread and chewed it slowly. It was good, moist and sweet with a sugar-cinnamon crunch. Maybe I was having a sugar rush of my own, or maybe it was because I had a few minutes of peace and quiet, but a vision of a woman came into my mind, reluctantly holding up a bag of starter and regarding it with a frown.

She was lovely, and she was sad. I didn’t know what had happened, just that she was stuck in the day-to-day motions that mimicked life when in fact she hadn’t felt alive in years. I saw her own young daughter, her husband, the home they shared together.

I knew right then that I wanted to find out more. I put the bag of starter in a mixing bowl, the instructions tucked inside, and placed it on the counter. I called to my daughter and told her we would be baking Amish Friendship Bread in 10 days.

 
That night I sat down at my computer, the image of the woman still fresh in my mind. I started writing, and the story of Julia Evarts started unfolding, but still I didn’t know what was going on. Later that night, I saw a quarter flying through the air and landing in the palm of someone’s hand. That hand belonged to Julia’s sister. I liked Livvy instantly—her optimism, her bubbly personality. But I sensed that something had happened between her and Julia, that they were no longer talking though they had once been very, very close. I continued to write, and more central characters started to show up, all with stories of their own—Madeline, a lonely widow who opens a tea salon on a whim; Hannah, a former cello prodigy whose marriage is ending; and Edie, an ambitious journalist who is desperate to make her mark.
 
I started to see all the connections, saw how the bread was linking people together in ways that surprised me. Characters appeared for only a moment but left an indelible impression.

I filled any available moment, day or night, writing. My husband had read the first few pages and agreed that there was something there. We came up with a schedule that let us juggle the kids, work and writing. I figured the story was either there or it wasn’t, and it was my job to write until it became clear either way.

All this time, my daughter and I were following the instructions that came with the starter. For 10 days it was the same thing—mash the bag—a task her brothers were more than happy to help with. We added flour, milk and sugar on the sixth and 10th days, and watched the starter bubble up happily. I still have that same starter, almost two years later.

I’ll admit that I was looking forward to baking the bread that first time. There’s something about squeezing the bag for 10 days that has you counting the days until it’s time to bake. When I realized that we wouldn’t have any starter left once we divided the batter and shared it among our friends, I kept a bag for myself. Ten days later, we were baking again.

It continued like this as I wrote the book, sharing the starter with friends and neighbors. I experimented with new Amish Friendship Bread recipes, all the time fortifying myself with the bread that was at the heart of Friendship Bread, my novel.

Amish Friendship Bread is so much more than a simple recipe; it’s about friendship and community, about sharing what you have with others and expressing gratitude for the good things in your life. I’m reminded of this every time I gather with my family in the kitchen, the bowl of Amish Friendship Bread starter on the counter, waiting for our next baking day.

Darien Gee is the author of Friendship Bread and founder of the Friendship Bread Kitchen. Click here to download a PDF of the recipe for Amish Friendship Bread.

 

In 2009, my then-eight-year-old daughter brought home a few slices of Amish Friendship Bread on a paper plate. “It’s so good,” she insisted. Then she pulled out a Ziploc bag of starter and a page (a page!) of instructions. Now if you’ve never seen (or…

Review by

Welcome to Elmwood Springs, Missouri the fictional setting of Fannie Flagg’s long-awaited novel, Welcome to the World, Baby Girl. As near perfect as you can get without having to get downright sentimental about it or making up a bunch of lies, this neighborly town is filled with charming, quirky characters and has a strong, endearing sense of community.

Dena Nordstrom otherwise known lovingly as Baby Girl is the surprisingly well-adjusted daughter of Norma and Macky Nordstrom. And though Dena has left Elmwood Springs to become a TV anchorwoman and the pride and joy of her network, her hometown is still an intrinsic part of her, and she of it. With a future full of promise, Dena survives her complicated present and her mysterious past, all of which are tied to Elmwood Springs.

Flagg, an Alabama native, has, time and again, proven her mastery of storytelling, her ability to make each character vivid and real. Welcome to the World is no different. With an expert ear for language, Flagg, through her narrator, lovingly invites us to be a part of this community that is Elmwood Springs, this community with bounds far more reaching than any map could measure.

Much of this novel is vintage Flagg. For instance, Aunt Elner blesses Dena’s heart from afar over the fact that she eats in restaurants day and night up in New York City. Mourning the lack of anything homemade in Dena’s diet, Aunt Elner decides to make use of her stockpile of hickory nuts and send her my hickory nut cake with the caramel icing. There are no hidden symbols in this cake, no hidden answer to a mystery. This and other examples have little or no bearing on the plot at all. These entertaining asides, however, are ultimately the essence of Flagg’s novel.

Through unmistakable voices and rich ties to home, Welcome to the World illustrates how much a part of a person place can be. You can take the baby girl out of Elmwood Springs, but you can’t take Elmwood Springs out of the baby girl.

Pat Patrick is a reviewer in Nashville.

Welcome to Elmwood Springs, Missouri the fictional setting of Fannie Flagg's long-awaited novel, Welcome to the World, Baby Girl. As near perfect as you can get without having to get downright sentimental about it or making up a bunch of lies, this neighborly town is…

Review by

Welcome to Elmwood Springs, Missouri the fictional setting of Fannie Flagg’s long-awaited novel, Welcome to the World, Baby Girl. As near perfect as you can get without having to get downright sentimental about it or making up a bunch of lies, this neighborly town is filled with charming, quirky characters and has a strong, endearing sense of community.

Dena Nordstrom—otherwise known lovingly as Baby Girl—is the surprisingly well-adjusted daughter of Norma and Macky Nordstrom. And though Dena has left Elmwood Springs to become a TV anchorwoman and the pride and joy of her network, her hometown is still an intrinsic part of her, and she of it. With a future full of promise, Dena survives her complicated present and her mysterious past, all of which are tied to Elmwood Springs.

Flagg, an Alabama native, has, time and again, proven her mastery of storytelling, her ability to make each character vivid and real. Welcome to the World is no different. With an expert ear for language, Flagg, through her narrator, lovingly invites us to be a part of this community that is Elmwood Springs, this community with bounds far more reaching than any map could measure.

Much of this novel is vintage Flagg. For instance, Aunt Elner blesses Dena’s heart from afar over the fact that she eats in restaurants day and night up in New York City. Mourning the lack of anything homemade in Dena’s diet, Aunt Elner decides to make use of her stockpile of hickory nuts and send her my hickory nut cake with the caramel icing. There are no hidden symbols in this cake, no hidden answer to a mystery. This and other examples have little or no bearing on the plot at all. These entertaining asides, however, are ultimately the essence of Flagg’s novel.

Through unmistakable voices and rich ties to home, Welcome to the World illustrates how much a part of a person place can be. You can take the baby girl out of Elmwood Springs, but you can’t take Elmwood Springs out of the baby girl.

Pat Patrick is a reviewer in Nashville.

Welcome to Elmwood Springs, Missouri the fictional setting of Fannie Flagg's long-awaited novel, Welcome to the World, Baby Girl. As near perfect as you can get without having to get downright sentimental about it or making up a bunch of lies, this neighborly town is…

Behind the Book by

The publication of my novel Four Spirits this month is the fulfillment of a promise I made to myself long ago. Back in the 1960s, witnessing the civil rights struggle in my home city of Birmingham, Alabama, I promised myself that if I ever did become a successful fiction writer I would write about the courage and pain, the unspeakable cruelty and abiding love of those transformative times.

It took nearly 40 years and the publication of five earlier books for me to have the confidence to try to tell the civil rights story as I had lived it, observed it, heard stories and read about it. In a number of ways, the character of Stella Silver in Four Spirits replicates some of my own experiences. My own idealistic family were educated, liberal, loving people. For a long time, I was sheltered from the racial fear and hatred in my city and the South, but, while I was a freshman at Phillips High School, the Rev. Mr. Fred Shuttlesworth, while attempting to enroll his children in an all-white school, was beaten with chains and brass knuckles in front of the building and his wife was stabbed.

Like Stella, the scales fell from my eyes as an impassioned high school teacher from the North spoke to my class of racial prejudice as a mark of ignorance. Soon, I was hearing and reading with horror of beatings, of castration, and of more than 40 homes and businesses of blacks destroyed by dynamite in Birmingham. However, like many citizens of Birmingham and of the nation, it was when I learned that four young girls of the bombed Sixteenth Street Baptist Church had been killed that I made a new commitment to work to overcome racial prejudice in my city and in America.

Joined by a disabled friend in a wheelchair, I began teaching on the campus of all-black Miles College. I began to know personal fear. When President John F. Kennedy was assassinated, I witnessed widespread joy in the populace of Birmingham because a rising champion of integration was dead. As I worked the switchboard of a major department store that Friday night, my own isolation and alienation from a city I truly loved increased my resolve to some day tell the truth, through fiction. I believe triumph can be wrung out of tragedy. Largely through nonviolent political action rooted in love, the South has been transformed, if not utterly changed, and the whole of America has made a greater legal and moral commitment to racial justice.

While my novel Four Spirits truthfully suggests something of the violence, sacrifice and heartbreak of those times, it is a positive book and celebrates courage, friendship, family and community.

Sena Jeter Naslund lives with her husband in Louisville, Kentucky. Her new novel, Four Spirits dedicated to the victims of the Birmingham church bombing is being published by William Morrow.

 

 

 

The publication of my novel Four Spirits this month is the fulfillment of a promise I made to myself long ago. Back in the 1960s, witnessing the civil rights struggle in my home city of Birmingham, Alabama, I promised myself that if I ever…

Review by

What I wouldn’t give for a gaggle of ancestors like Janice Woods Windle’s. They make such marvelous fiction! Although, to tell the truth, perhaps all of us have these characters in our background and simply lack the documentation, or the energy, to search it out. Why, I remember tales about my Grandma Fahs . . . but, right, we’re talking about Windle’s good luck.

Still, while the author’s pedigree, with its Texas setting and larger-than-life family stories, may have been a lucky stroke, every page of this extraordinary novel about an extraordinary woman must owe its accomplishment to hard labor and a mighty gift of re-creation. Laura Woods would have been proud of her granddaughter.

The leading lady of Hill Country, Laura was an intelligent, simple, complicated woman. Born about 1868, she led a Texas-sized life, jam-packed with experiences ranging from Indian raids to helping her dearest friend’s baby boy, Lyndon Johnson, grow up to be President of the United States. She witnessed the community lynching of a white murderer, fell in love with a pariah, lived alone on a wilderness ranch, endured Mexican revolutionary violence and a horrible train wreck, helplessly watched a daughter’s slide into schizophrenia, engaged in feminist and political activities, flew with Charles Lindbergh and, aged 93, moved to California. When that didn’t work, she got herself back to Texas again, hampered by age but up to the challenge. Last seen, she’s doing for herself once again, happily skipping a rest home in San Marcos.

During this long life, she wrote everything down: random thoughts, momentary furies, things she must do, things others should do, observed injustices, acknowledgment of the folly and error of those around her. She saved them all, along with carbons of letters giving advice to 11 American presidents and many other public personalities, and boxes full of photographs, newspaper articles, campaign materials from political contests she had worked in, and voluminous correspondence and personal files. In her seventies, she started to write a book about her life, and, if the purported excerpts in Hill Country are authentic, she possessed a writing style and wisdom equal to Windle’s own.

That’s saying a lot because, except for a grating tendency to use like for as, Windle’s work is fresh and imaginative. She rarely settles for cliches, and her evocation of very old age seems remarkably real. (As far as I can tell, of course.) She has wisely chosen to tell Laura’s story in novel form. This worked well with Windle’s first novel True Women, which uses other feisty feminine forbears as the basis for punchy, adventurous storytelling. Hill Country repeats themes from the earlier book, but its power is intensified by the focus on a single, strong woman.

There’s heft to this book, of the human kind that comes from the substance of a life lived in real time and historic circumstances. Some might call her a survivor, but that word is too passive for Laura. She doesn’t just endure life, she triumphs over it.

Maude McDaniel is a freelance writer in Cumberland, Maryland.

What I wouldn't give for a gaggle of ancestors like Janice Woods Windle's. They make such marvelous fiction! Although, to tell the truth, perhaps all of us have these characters in our background and simply lack the documentation, or the energy, to search it out.…

Behind the Book by

<B>The top-secret battles that threatened America’s shores</B> I am a lucky man and I know it. I’ve managed to have two interesting careers, one as a NASA engineer and another as an author of memoirs and novels. Most of my fans assume I transitioned from NASA to writing but the truth is I’ve been a writer nearly all of my life. Mrs. Laird, my third grade teacher, told me someday I’d make my living as an author and was mightily disappointed when I decided some years later to become an engineer. My training in the sciences, however, never stopped my love of the written word. I first broke in as a freelance writer for a variety of scuba diving magazines during the 1970s. After being certified as a diver in 1972 and then as an instructor in 1973, I began to write for <I>Skin Diver, Sport Diver, Aquarius</I> and other magazines dedicated to the sport. My specialty was stories about diving on sunken wrecks. This would lead to a most remarkable adventure and, to my surprise (and Mrs. Laird’s joy), my first book.

My adventure began in 1975 when a fisherman off Cape Hatteras, North Carolina, saw something long and narrow on his depth recorder. Curious, he invited some local divers to dive on the thing, whatever it was. At a depth of 110 feet, the divers found what they believed to be a submarine. Before long, I got a call from one of them. Would I come up and perhaps write an article about it? I jumped at the chance.

When I dived on the wreck, I recognized it immediately as not only a submarine but a World War II German U-boat that had been sunk in battle. There were torpedoes and 88-millimeter shells strewn about, and its deck gun was blown away. In its conning tower I found a human skeleton. What had sunk this submarine and when? Whose body was in the conning tower? And what in heaven’s name was a German <I>Unterseeboot</I> doing in American waters, anyway? The answers to those questions and so many others would not come easy. After digging, I discovered that nearly all the records of World War II German U-boat activity off the American east coast were still classified. Fortunately, being the lucky guy I am, the Freedom of Information Act was passed shortly afterwards. This allowed me to be one of the first researchers to look at a treasure trove of documentation. I was astonished to learn of a battle within sight of our shores that had not only sunk this particular U-boat (the U-352) but six others along with over 400 American and allied ships in a nine-month period. It was, in fact, one of the greatest and longest battles of the war, yet was virtually unknown. Soon, I tracked down American, British and German sailors who had fought in the bitter contest. After writing a number of articles about my findings, I realized I had enough for a book. My military history best-seller <I>Torpedo Junction</I> (Naval Institute Press, 1989; Dell, 1991) was the result.

After <I>Torpedo Junction</I> was published, I began to receive many letters from folks who had lived on the North Carolina Outer Banks during the war. They thanked me for writing about the battle and then continued with their own eyewitness accounts. One man wrote to tell me about his mother who was living at the time on Hatteras Island. One day, she’d been hanging out the laundry when what should motor by but a U-boat with its crew sunbathing on deck? They had waved at her and she’d waved back before recalling they were the enemy. She retrieved her husband’s rifle and began shooting! Wildly ducking, the Germans had immediately scrambled inside their U-boat and submerged. Other letters I received were more ominous in nature, stories of saboteurs off U-boats who had been met by the local citizenry with shotguns. Although these accounts were not verifiable, I came to believe there was more than a kernel of truth to them. Eventually, I knew I had to write a novel that would encompass not only the research I’d done for <I>Torpedo Junction</I> but the unique people of the Outer Banks. <B>The Keeper’s Son</B> is the result.

Nearly all of my books have been about small towns, and so I was pleased to write about another, this one set on the fictitious island of “Killakeet, south of Hatteras, north of Lookout,” a place of “fishermen, clam-stompers, oyster-rakers, Coastguardsmen, and lighthouse keepers.” The Keeper’s Son is a novel of the Thurlow family, keepers of the Killakeet lighthouse. The Thurlows must endure a great tragedy when Jacob Thurlow, only 2 years old, is lost at sea due to an error of judgment by Josh, his older brother. Seventeen years later, after a self-imposed exile, Josh returns to the island as a Coast Guard officer. When the marauding U-boats arrive, Josh and the crew of his tiny patrol boat are all that can stop the destruction of the people of Killakeet. What Josh cannot imagine, however, is that one of the U-boats is harboring a secret that might tell him the fate of his baby brother.

Although there are more than a few stirring battle scenes in my novel and also the mystery of the lost son to unravel, there are also several romantic subplots, one of which includes Dosie Crossan, a lusty young horsewoman who sets her sights on Josh. It’s always been my belief that it isn’t plot that makes for the good story but, perhaps more importantly, the people in it. It was a lot of fun to create Dosie and all the colorful characters who populate Killakeet and the U-boats offshore. I hope my fans will enjoy reading <B>The Keeper’s Son</B>, a novel of high-spirited adventure and love in a time of war. The Keeper’s Son <I>is the first work of fiction by Homer Hickam, a former</I> NASA <I>engineer who first won a wide audience with</I> Rocket Boys<I>, a memoir of his West Virginia boyhood that was made into the movie</I> October Sky. <I>Hickam, who has also written two other volumes about his small-town upbringing, lives in Huntsville, Alabama.</I>

<B>The top-secret battles that threatened America's shores</B> I am a lucky man and I know it. I've managed to have two interesting careers, one as a NASA engineer and another as an author of memoirs and novels. Most of my fans assume I transitioned from…
Review by

Although Alex Haley, the Pulitzer Prize-winning author of Roots, has been dead since 1992, works bearing his name continue to surface, capitalizing on the momentum generated by the soaring best-selling 1977 family epic which sold millions of copies. The posthumous canon of Haley resumed in 1993 with the more modest success of his last novel, Queen, the tale of the writer’s paternal great-grandmother that produced a notable three-episode TV miniseries. Now, screenwriter David Stevens, who wrote Queen from the research notes and tapes of Haley, reprises his role as the late novelist’s collaborator with their new offering, Mama Flora’s Family, the fictional saga of the gutsy matriarch of a clan of poor black Arkansas sharecroppers.

The latest Haley-Stevens effort avoids the criticisms that surrounded Queen and the Roots phenomenon by sticking with a big multigenerational story touching on all of the large themes common to their work: familial love, persistence, courage, racism, temptation, and religious faith. Stevens, drawing on his formidable ability as a storyteller, spends ample time with the strong yet flawed Mama Flora, whose determination to survive in a brutal Jim Crow South quickly earns our respect. Following the murder of her husband Booker, she overcomes the deep sorrow from his death through hard work and prayer. Nothing will stop her from achieving a better life for her son, Willie, and her sister Josie’s child, Ruthana, adopted after the woman’s tragic death.

Stevens skillfully transforms the central story from the usual traditional, long-suffering Big Mama variety into a classic metaphor for the harsh emotional and psychological costs of the Great Migration confronting African Americans fleeing the South. It is the battle of Willie, attempting to adapt to fast Chicago life, that spells out the high price of assimilating into a new, hostile world. But he stubbornly survives and becomes a man. Like many blacks, he signs up to fight in the segregated military during World War II to prove something to a country that still denied equal rights to all. Maybe patriotism could change that, he thinks but it does not, as Stevens painfully reveals.

If the author etches accurate portrayals of Flora and Willie, the leading characters, through the depressed 1930s, zoot suit 1940s, and Eisenhower 1950s, he then reaches full stride in his astute characterization of the politicized Ruthana in the militant Black Power days of the 1960s and 1970s. Although she bucks the home-spun values of Mama Flora, searching for a self-affirming existence, the young woman keeps the bed-rock truths of family and tradition close to her heart unlike others in the clan who succumb to drugs and other temptations.

There is nothing fancy about the narrative that drives this sprawling family yarn, but the people and events will stay with the reader long after the last page is read. With Mama Flora’s Family listed as Haley’s final work, his literary legacy, rich with accomplishments, concludes on a respectable, competent note.

Robert Fleming is a writer in New York.

Although Alex Haley, the Pulitzer Prize-winning author of Roots, has been dead since 1992, works bearing his name continue to surface, capitalizing on the momentum generated by the soaring best-selling 1977 family epic which sold millions of copies. The posthumous canon of Haley resumed in…
Review by

I had a roommate in college who used to leave guests doubled over on the floor with a hilarious cultural critique of what he deemed the eight basic plot lines of the Family Circus comic strip. All those laughs came rushing back in sinister spades while reading J. Robert Lennon’s slightly wacky, partly dark, but often charming second novel The Funnies. Lennon has imagined the life of characters in Family Follies, a thinly veiled Family Circus. Rather than the placid, domestic space of a cartoon where inevitably the dog does something cute and everyone get along, Lennon has embodied his fictional family with phobias, neuroses, bitter sibling rivalries, and eerie family secrets all doused in a generous splash of alcohol. But from this veritable cornucopia of 1990s dysfunction comes a rather winning novel, one as equal on laughs as it is on probing steadiness.

The protagonist and voice of the novel is Tim Mix, the second son of five children, who inherits the Family Follies strip from his now-dead father, Carl (he dies in the first line of the book). While loved by countless millions across the country, Carl was not the portrait of goodness portrayed in the strip, and his real family bears little resemblance to the idealized cartoon. The bulk of the novel traces Tim’s transformation from naifish conceptual artist to a bona fide cartoonist. It doesn’t always go well. As he moves back into his boyhood house, Tim not only fights family demons, but also has to worry about Ken Dorn, a rival cartoonist who wants the Family Follies strip so badly he often stalks Tim, much like Claire Quilty in Nabokov’s Lolita. Lennon’s voice is easy-going, and the narrative clips along nicely, often effectively using underlying familial tension as a type of unseen or understated character. Tim’s siblings are interesting and well drawn, especially Pierce, the 28-year-old paranoid who never moved out of his parent’s home. Not as successful, however, is the figure of Dot Mix, the mother, now in a nursing home in the shroud of alcohol-induced senility. Pierce and Tim’s desire to get her out of the home doesn’t necessarily add to the more successful, detailed, and dynamic relationships in the book. But this relationship, as well as a sometimes disjointed last third of the book, does not ruin an otherwise excellent novel. Lennon has tremendous skills of description, providing the right amount of detail without becoming obsessive. His obviously thorough research into the business and culture of comic strips pays superb dividends as Tim attends a comic strip convention in one of the book’s more memorable and funny chapters. The Funnies may not always be funny, but Lennon’s balanced delivery, his inherent whimsy, and his refusal to brush the darker aspects of the book under the rug gives The Funnies its impressive energy and nuanced psychological strength.

Mark Luce is a writer in Lawrence, Kansas.

I had a roommate in college who used to leave guests doubled over on the floor with a hilarious cultural critique of what he deemed the eight basic plot lines of the Family Circus comic strip. All those laughs came rushing back in sinister spades…

Behind the Book by

When I decided to make my grim reaper female in First Grave on the Right, I really didn’t want a being made of death and darkness and skeletal remains, so I decided to challenge lore. I mean, what if grim reapers were just misunderstood? Represented in legends and mythology erroneously? And what it they were really bright, shiny beacons of light that lured those departed who were stuck on Earth toward them to cross to the other side? Of course, my heroine would attract all kinds of trouble in the process, everything from demons who try to kill her to ghosts who try to kill her to, well, humans who try to kill her.

That is Charlotte “Charley” Davidson in a nutshell. And while she’d like to believe she’s a complete badass, she’s really more of an accident-prone, slightly schizophrenic girl from Albuquerque who takes the complications of ADD to a whole new level. And being the only grim reaper this side of forever doesn’t help.

Okay, but why the grim reaper, you might ask. That one is simple. As an aspiring author, I wanted to get noticed. I wanted something different that would pique the interest of agents and editors alike. Fortunately for me, Charley did just that. First, she won the 2009 RWA® Golden Heart© for Best Paranormal Romance, then she landed me an amazing agent. Not long after that, she secured a three-book deal for the rights to her story with St. Martin’s Press. Her journey has been an incredible one and the fun is just beginning.

For me, that Golden Heart final changed everything. Admittedly, I’d been entering the contest for several years, and while I never finaled despite some pretty good scores, every year I really thought I had a chance. Until 2009. I signed up to enter First Grave on the Right for one reason and one reason only: I wanted to force myself to finish the manuscript. I knew beyond a shadow of a doubt it would not final. No way. No how. And then I was mad that I’d wasted the entry fee. That money could have been used for something worthwhile, like chocolate! But I grudgingly sent it in and dismissed it from my mind entirely.

So when March 25 rolled around and I received the call that I was a finalist, to say that I was in a state of shock would be an understatement. I honestly could not believe it. And when I won? Forget about it. I was so shocked, I forgot my shoes and walked to the stage in a daze barefoot.

In First Grave on the Right, Charley Davidson uses her reaper abilities to help her succeed as a private investigator. It’s a natural progression from her childhood. Since she was five, she’s been helping her detective father solve crimes. In First Grave, three lawyers from the same law firm are murdered, and they come to Charley to find their killer. At the same time, she's dealing with a being she calls the Big Bad. He’s more powerful, and definitely sexier, than any specter she's ever come across. With the help of some living and some not-so-living associates, Charley sets out to solve the highest profile case of the year and discovers that dodging bullets isn't nearly as dangerous as falling in love.

Darynda Jones lives in New Mexico, where she is currently hard at work on the third Charley Davidson mystery.

When I decided to make my grim reaper female in First Grave on the Right, I really didn’t want a being made of death and darkness and skeletal remains, so I decided to challenge lore. I mean, what if grim reapers were just misunderstood? Represented…

Review by

You might expect Dominican-American Loida Maritza Perez’s remarkable first novel to brim with warm, hazy memories of the homeland (and be cut with the immigrant’s shock of immersion in a new culture). That’s why the intimate scale of Geographies of Home comes as such a surprise: The action happens within the family. Home is not in our native countries; it is in our hearts and memories. Aurelia, Papito, and their 14 children left Trujillo’s Dominican Republic for New York years before. Aurelia’s only law is love for her children and grandchildren. Adventist deacon Papito fears for his daughters’ safety and tries to beat that fear into them. Prodigal daughter Iliana is torn between independence and family loyalty. Troubled Marina sees visions of spiders and God. Rebecca cannot leave the husband who beats and degrades her. Perez weaves the story by smoothly shifting the point of view among the characters and their memories. The conflicts and tension are not unique to the immigrant experience; they’ll be achingly familiar to almost every reader. Should Iliana fulfill herself at college, or return home to help her family? Is seeking psychological help for Marina the same as betraying her and shaming the family? How long will Aurelia try to salvage Rebecca’s life for her, and how far will she go when the grandchildren are at stake? The pleasures of Geographies of Home are like those of a memoir: The characters are complex and real, and their memories are vivid and full of emotional detail. Perez deftly handles each character’s blend of passionate and conflicting emotions.

Though her book threatens to burst with color and life, Perez has woven it tightly. She writes boldly and precisely of love, bitterness, desire, sin, madness, fear, and forgiveness. She describes the tiny geography of the human heart.

Robin Taylor is a reviewer in Washington, D.

C.

You might expect Dominican-American Loida Maritza Perez's remarkable first novel to brim with warm, hazy memories of the homeland (and be cut with the immigrant's shock of immersion in a new culture). That's why the intimate scale of Geographies of Home comes as such a…

Behind the Book by

Some writers have always known they wanted be writers. Others have felt a calling to the profession. I, however, fell into fiction writing literally. After slipping and twisting my ankle my second year at college, I needed to find a class I could get to easily on crutches. It was late in the registration period, and I was left with a choice between only two courses: Descartesian Theory and Creative Writing. I might have been clumsy, but I wasn't stupid. I chose the writing class.

Years later, with two master's degrees in the subject behind me, I found myself at an impasse. I'd finished my first book, a collection of short stories called Destination Known, and was ready to write a novel, but needed funding to make that possible. Uncoordinated or not, I wasn't likely to trip into any mounds of cash on the street. Then a classmate of mine from the Iowa Writers' Workshop told me about a fellowship offered to alumni and suggested I apply. It seemed like I had fallen into some luck without actually having to fall. My decision to apply only started to feel like a misstep once I faced the task of beginning the book. Up until that point, I'd only written short fiction, and the prospect of embarking on a novel, even a portion of one to submit for the fellowship, was daunting. In spite of all my writing experience, I genuinely had no clue where to begin.

I tried hitting up friends for family stories, plumbing my own past, even chatting up strangers, but nothing piqued my interest. One night, while complaining to my mother about the glare from my blank computer screen, I happened to ask if she remembered any striking or odd stories from her youth. She mulled it over for a bit, then told me that she recalled the rumor of a priest who'd been buried in a potter's field, but no one would ever say why. The forbidden quality of the secret surrounding the priest intrigued me. I tried to imagine what he could have done that would prohibit him from being buried in consecrated ground, and that was where the root of the story took hold.

The setting for my novel, The Grave of God's Daughter, is based on the place where my mother was raised. All throughout my childhood, we had made trips to her hometown in Western Pennsylvania, and to a young girl, it was like a foreign land that was just a car ride away. I remembered eavesdropping on people as they spoke in Polish, and attending mass at Saint Joseph's Church, the foundation of which my great-grandmother had actually helped dig. Some of the streets were still cobblestone, and there was an enormous neon cross perched on the mountain on the other side of the river that glowed through the night. I'd grown up hearing the tales my mother told about collecting glass bottles to make change, the strict nuns who were her teachers in school and how she'd never seen a mosquito while growing up because of the chemical plant on the other side of town.

While thinking out the novel, those stories began to blend with my own memories. One in particular was the time I visited my great-uncle's house, where he raised pit bulls. The sound of more than two dozen dogs barking was as frightening for me as a child as it became for the narrator of the novel. Though the fabric of The Grave of God's Daughter has many threads of fact, they are only the framework for a story about the unwavering bond between mother and child. Given the source of the story, the theme couldn't be more apt.

If I had a dime for all of the times I'd heard the phrase "write what you know" in creative writing classes, I might not have needed the fellowship grant, but I also might not have written this book. I couldn't have predicted that when I injured my ankle I would stumble onto a career that I love, nor could I have planned that the inspiration for this novel would be a strange scrap of memory from my mother's childhood, but like any good story, even the one behind the novel has plenty of twists and turns.

Brett Ellen Block's debut novel, The Grave of God's Daughter, explores a young girl's coming-of-age in an isolated small town that is keeping a terrible secret. A graduate of the Iowa Writers' Workshop, Block now lives in Los Angeles.

 

Some writers have always known they wanted be writers. Others have felt a calling to the profession. I, however, fell into fiction writing literally. After slipping and twisting my ankle my second year at college, I needed to find a class I could get to…

Review by

The longing to own a house by the side of the road is one of the oldest of humanity’s stories. Perhaps for this reason it also functions as subtext in much of our literature, and now provides the momentum for Andre Dubus III’s outstanding new novel, House of Sand and Fog.

"In my country, there is an old belief that if a bird flies into your home, it is an angel who has come to guide you . . ."

The speaker here is Colonel Behrani, formerly of the Iranian Air Force, now owner of a bungalow on a California hillside. But that’s no angel in his house — she’s Kathy Nicolo, a recovering addict, who believes that the Colonel’s bungalow rightfully belongs to her. Actually, through an error at the county tax office, she’s right. But the Colonel, who bought the house legally at auction, is also right. Each side of the ensuing property dispute sees the other through the lens of its own culture.

Americans, the Colonel thinks, spend far too much time in the "pale blue glow" of television, and thus ". . . have eyes of very small children who are forever looking for their next source of distraction, entertainment, or a sweet taste in the mouth." To Kathy and her deputy sheriff boyfriend, the Colonel’s proud and graceful Iranian family, though U.S. citizens, are "Arabs" too far from home, "sitting on stolen property."

One of the many strengths of this story is that most of its characters come to understand the point of view of the others at least briefly. But each, through circumstance, personality, and culture, is locked into a pattern of behavior which he or she is helpless to change. Dubus’s ability to inhabit characters across culture and gender is stunning.

What’s at stake here, Dubus suggests, is far more than property. As this collision of cultures and good intentions gone wrong spirals into tragedy, there’s a sense of inevitability like that at the end of an ancient Greek play. In our grieving for the fates of these people, we recognize ourselves, our dreams and flaws, as well as those of our own culture.

James William Brown is the author of Blood Dance (Harcourt Brace).

The longing to own a house by the side of the road is one of the oldest of humanity's stories. Perhaps for this reason it also functions as subtext in much of our literature, and now provides the momentum for Andre Dubus III's outstanding new…

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