Category: Fiction

My March Reads

This Thursday is the first day of spring. The ancients called it Ostara and believed it was a time to celebrate new beginnings, balance, and renewal. We usually think of it as the Spring Equinox, a time when the sun and earth are in balance, and the days and nights are equal.

Whatever you call it, and whether or not you mark it at all, spring is almost always welcome, at least here in the Western Hemisphere. Signs of growth are everywhere! In my garden, the heather and crocuses are in bloom, the daffodils are just about to pop, and the blossoms on the cherry and plum trees are too.

I love this time of year, though I’ll admit that as the garden comes alive, it’s sometimes challenging to balance cerebral pursuits with outdoor activities. For now, though, there’s still plenty of time for both. And that makes me happy because I have a lot of reading and writing to do. Here’s what I’m reading this month.

The Stone Witch of Florence by Anna Rasche

The Spirited Kitchen by Carmen Spagnola

Elegant Simplicity: The Art of Living Well by Satish Kumar

Books Read to Date in 2025: 21

My February Reads

 It’s Freedom to Read Week, a time that encourages Canadians to think about and reaffirm their commitment to intellectual freedom. Now, more than ever, we need to hold onto the right to read whatever we please. We need to make sure all voices are represented and all readers can find themselves reflected in the books they select.  Pick up a book this month. Any book you like. It’s your right to choose. Here’s what I’m reading this month:

The Leap Year Gene by Shelley Wood

After Life by Gayle Foreman

The Love Elixir of Augusta Stern by Lynda Cohen Loigman

Books Read to Date in 2025: 16

Book Love

 People are often surprised when they learn that I don’t belong to a book club. I adore everything about books – reading them, writing them, and (in spite of my well-used eReader) the very physicality of them, as witnessed by the overflowing bookshelves in my house.

So why not a book club? Many people swear by them. Several of my friends, in fact, belong to book clubs and love them (I’m waving at you, Leah and Alice).

For me, though, book clubs conflict with how books are meant to be experienced. They take me back to high school with its enforced reading and dissection of characters, plot and theme. I’m also not a fan of being assigned mandatory reads. I have enough trouble getting through my own ‘to be read’ pile! And I certainly don’t want to struggle through a book I don’t like so I can share criticisms with others. The most I want to say about a book I don’t care for is ‘it’s not for me.’ Because that book might be just right for someone else.

That’s not to say I don’t talk about books with others. I talk about them all the time. I have friends who love to read and we often recommend titles to each other or discuss what we’re reading. If we read the same book, it’s fun to compare notes afterwards. I’ll admit, book discussions with writer friends sometimes do veer into specifics about what we liked or didn’t like about a given novel. But we generally approach the subject from deep craft point of view and always with the understanding and underlying respect for the many inherent challenges (as well as courage!) that it takes to write any novel and see it through to publication.

At the end of the day, writers write so people will be moved and entertained by their stories. That’s all that truly matters. That and reading the book. So, regardless of whether you’re in a book club or not, read a book. If you liked it, tell a friend. And then read another book. And another . . .

My January Reads

                                                    

The garden might be in hibernation mode, but the neighborhood birds are active. They love that we didn’t get to the deadheading last fall. After dining on the seed heads, they play tag with each other before resting on the branches we didn’t prune. One of my favorites is a tiny green Anna’s hummingbird that loves to drink nectar from the Sarcococca Confusa (Sweet Box) outside our kitchen window before perching on the weeping Maple. It’s almost enough to keep me from my reading. Almost, but not quite.

I didn’t read quite as many books as normal in 2024. I noted down 52 titles, one for each week, though I know I read slightly more than that. I lost track when we were travelling. I hope to surpass that number this year. Here’s what I’m reading this month.

By Any Other Name by Jodi Picoult

One Way Back by Christine Blasey Ford

Slow Down: The Degrowth Manifesto by Kolei Saito

Books read to date in 2025: 4

My Reading Wish List

                                           

Usually at this time of year I recommend book picks for the readers on your holiday gift giving list. This year, instead of trying to guess the tastes of your lucky recipients, I thought I’d tell you what I’d love to find wrapped and under my tree. Below are some fiction picks I’d be thrilled to receive.

A Way to Be Happy by Caroline Adderson.  A Globe 100 Best Book of 2024 and longlisted for the 2024 Giller Prize, Adderson’s short story collection features disparate but vividly drawn characters who, in the face of inevitable challenges, must come to some sort of acceptance as they consider what it means to be happy. Short story collections are easy to dip into when time or attention spans are short, but the short story, as a literary form, is complex and surprisingly hard to write, and this latest offering from BC author Adderson is billed as touching, funny and thought-provoking.

The Leap Year Gene of Kit McKinley by Shelley Wood, another BC author. This novel, which is getting lots of buzz, traces the life of Kit McKinley who is born on leap year during WW1 and grows one year older every four years. Unnaturally slow to age, Kit and her family must keep moving to protect her secret from insatiable newshounds, Nazi scientists, doctors, and pharmaceutical companies. Billed as a race through the past century’s burgeoning understanding of genetics, eugenics, and what constitutes ‘normal,’ the novel also explores the tensions, love and sense of duty that can bind families together or split them apart.

The Women by Kristin Hannah. While this novel deals with war, a subject I go out of my way to avoid, I loved Hannah’s novel The Nightingale (set during World War 11) so much, that I’m willing to try another war novel of hers. This time, Hannah takes us back to the mid-sixties, shortly after JFK was shot in Texas, when men are being sent to Vietnam. The story focuses on nurse Frances “Frankie” McGrath, who longs for a place on her father’s “Hero’s Wall” and volunteers for service in Vietnam.  Hannah says she was inspired to write the novel because of the number of female veterans who told her that their service and sacrifice had been ignored because ‘there were no women in ‘Nam.’  Her research proved the latter was absolutely not true.

Death at the Sign of the Rook by Kate Atkinson. I love a good mystery (it takes me back to those days reading Nancy Drew) and the latest Kate Atkinson (book six in the Jackson Brodie series) has all the elements: a diverse group of people come together for a lavish murder mystery weekend at Rook Hall, one of England’s finest stately homes. Throw in a snowstorm, a corpse and an art theft to solve, and you have the makings of another great Atkinson tale.

By Any Other Name by Jodi Picoult is a dual timeline novel. In one timeline, set in 1581, Picoult tells the story of Emilia Bassano who is the true author of Willliam’s Shakespeare’s plays, while the modern day second timeline features playwright Melina Green, who is an ancestor of Emilia and is having trouble getting her plays produced . . . until she submits one under a different name. Meticulously researched with detailed endnotes to support her theme, Picoult apparently provides compelling evidence and thought-provoking ideas on Shakespeare’s true authorship, while also exploring how two women who lived five centuries apart are forced to write under male pseudonyms in order to be taken seriously and make their voices heard. It may not be a light read but it sounds like a worthwhile one.

The Love Elixir of Augusta Stern by Lynda Cohen Loigman.  About to turn eighty, newly retired (and not by choice!) pharmacist Augusta Stern is adrift. When she relocates to an active senior community in Florida, she unexpectedly bumps into Irving Rivkin, the delivery boy from her father’s pharmacy, and the man who broke her heart sixty years earlier.  Also a dual timeline novel, this story switches between 1920s Brooklyn – the Prohibition era, the gangs, the importance of pharmacists and the role of a traditional pharmacy, and the challenges young Augusta faces in choosing her career – and 1987 Florida where Augusta faces a challenge of a different kind: avoiding Irving Rivkin at all costs. This ode to second chances has been touted by multiple readers as being sweet, funny and uplifting . . . and I think we can all use a bit of uplift these days.

I’ll be back next week with some non-fiction picks I’d love to receive this holiday season. Stop by and tell me what’s on your reading wish list.

What We Conceal

                                                           

After a few months of being happily distracted and out of my routine, I’m back at my desk enjoying the pleasures of writing, reading, and tending to simple tasks.  It’s the old Zen proverb in action: ‘Before enlightenment, chop wood and carry water. After enlightenment, chop wood and carry water.’

Cue enlightenment. Last weekend I took a writing workshop from Becca Puglisi (for any writers reading this, do yourself a favor and google books by Becca Puglisi and her writing partner, Angela Ackerman; one of my favorites is The Emotional Wound Thesaurus: A Writer’s Guide to Psychological Trauma).

Last weekend’s workshop was on hidden emotions and subtext. Puglisi showed us how to convey, through dialogue, what our characters are hiding and not saying. We all hide our emotions at times, Puglisi maintained. And we all lie at times too, she added.

Frankly, this didn’t sit well with me. Wouldn’t life be easier if we shared honestly and openly, but with respect? It might not shape tension in a novel, but when it comes to life, I value transparency. I connect it with integrity, something that’s also important to me.

I thought about our recent month in Japan. Instead of showing their real feelings, Japanese people usually use tatemae in public. Tatemae (建前) literally means ‘built in front.’ It refers to the facade people put in front of others to please them or avoid confrontation, and it often contradicts their true feelings. We were warned about this very thing from someone who had lived in Japan for several years. “Be careful asking for directions,” they said, “because even if someone doesn’t have an answer, they may use tatemae and point you in the wrong direction.”   And that’s exactly what happened multiple times. We would carefully follow the directions we were given only to become hopelessly lost and taken further afield from our destination. It would have been much easier for us if people had simply said ‘I don’t know.’  However, it wouldn’t have been easier for them because there’s a high cultural value on saving face in Japan.

Still, that’s Japan I told myself. It’s different in North America.

Or is it?

Puglisi, who lives in Florida, used the example of a single mother who holds differing political views from her coworkers and refrains from sharing them for fear of repercussions like losing her job and being unable to feed her kids. Or a man who lies outright to his sister about his political affiliations because if he shared honestly, he wouldn’t be allowed at his dying mother’s bedside.

Those are extreme cases. That’s not the norm, I told myself. Yet the same political divide is happening in Canada. The same issues are cropping up here.

“We all lie at times,” Puglisi repeated. “We all hide our emotions, mask judgements, water down opinions, hold back information, redirect and control conversations. Those are all forms of lying.”

Framed that way, I was better able to relate to the point Puglisi was making.

For instance, my daughter recently took my five-year-old grandson for his shot. She knew it would hurt; she expected him to scream (and scream he did) but she masked her emotions because her getting upset would only add to his distress. In another instance, when pressed by one family member about the romantic inclinations of another family member, I was anything but transparent. I deliberately withheld information that wasn’t mine to give, redirecting the conversation to something more mundane.

A lack of transparency, concealing things, is not only an option at times, sometimes it is the best option. Unless, of course, you’re lost in the middle of Tokyo and desperately need help finding your way. Then I’m all for transparency. Or calling a cab.

Listening . . .

                                                            

It’s funny how the universe sends us messages . . . if we’re open to hearing them. Ironically, the messages I’ve been getting lately are about the importance of listening.

The first nudge came from our neighbor. He’s a sound producer by profession so his world is, as you’d expect, all about sound. Knowing we’re planning a trip to Japan, he told us about a bar in Tokyo where patrons are not only encouraged to listen, but they are basically barred from talking. In fact, talking at Bar Martha will get you turfed out. Music is king. Patrons cannot chat, surf on their phone, interact with staff in any way other than to point at their menu selection. The idea is to sit in the dimly lit space, watch the DJ pull vinyl from ceiling-high shelves containing over 6000 albums, and listen reverently to Nina Simone, Eric Clapton or whoever else is currently playing. To put this in perspective, Tokyo is home to nearly 14 million people. By all accounts, it is a city with a frenetic pace . . . one where technology rules supreme and stimulus – noise – is everywhere. Except, it seems, at Bar Martha where music replaces discordant chatter and our only job is to settle in and listen.

Listening also came to the fore the other day during a conversation with a writer friend. She’s struggling with her novel. Her first draft is finished but she has issues with the middle. There’s so much going on in the narrative, she told me, that the through line of the story is cloudy and the ending doesn’t have enough punch. So, she sought out feedback. Members of her critique group came up with a few suggestions, and beta readers offered different takes too. One reader suggested thread A be dropped . . . another loved thread A but argued that thread B needed to go. Several others ignored those threads entirely and suggested taking the story in a completely different direction. My friend was confused. What, she asked, did I think?

I was familiar with her story because we’d brainstormed elements of it at various times. That’s what writers do. And given a little thoughtful discussion, I could have offered an opinion. But in the end the decision would be up to her.  It was her story. There wasn’t a right way or a wrong way. There was only her way.

“What is true north telling you?” I asked her instead.

“I don’t know,” she replied.

True north is the wisdom of our heart. It’s our internal compass, one that guides us through life at our deepest level and keeps us on track. It helps us with big things, little things, and everything in the middle, including our creativity. The trouble is noise and chatter from well-meaning people can drown out our true north. And in my friend’s case, it had.   

I suggested she find her own version of Bar Martha and get quiet. I suspected if she tuned out the world and tuned into her story there was a good chance it would tell her exactly how it wanted to be told.

Because in the end, listening isn’t just good for hearing music. It’s also good for hearing the truth.

My May Reads

The consistently warm weather isn’t here quite yet, but my overwintered gerberas and geraniums are slowly migrating out of the greenhouse to take up their positions on the patio. Taking their place are flats of tomato, pepper, eggplant and melon seedlings. They got a late start because we were away for a week in April (primary seeding time) so I’m hoping they catch up. Speaking of catch up, that seems to be the theme in the garden lately, partly because of the weather but also because my back is dictating a slower pace. I’m okay with that; it means more time for a good book. And here’s what I’m reading this month.

The Four Winds by Kristin Hannah

Homecoming by Kate Morton

Ikaria by Diane Kochilas

Books read to date in 2024: 28

When Too Much . . .

. . . is . . . well . . . too much.

In writing, there’s such a thing as going too far, or overwriting. In her book Steering the Craft, esteemed author Ursula K. Le Guin says it’s important to “slow down and leave enough white space around the words and silence around the voice.” What you leave out in those pauses, she believes, is infinitely more important than what you leave in.  And yet, there’s a balance. Leave out too much and your reader won’t understand what’s going on. Cram in too many details, particularly in action scenes, and the pace falters. The rhythm, the speed, will be off.

Visual artists know this well. White space, whether that’s literal white space around an image or the grout that fills the gaps in a mosaic, is a key principle in design and applied arts. White space separates and highlights other elements. It allows the mind to rest and reflect, to absorb the message or the image. On the other hand, there are times when words or an artistic medium like paint are overused precisely because that’s the effect the creator is going for (the recent official portrait of King Charles 111 and his big red controversy comes to mind).

Overdoing has been on my mind a lot lately. The first draft of my current WIP is overwritten (as is my tendency in a first draft), the herb bed in the garden is overplanted (I love too many plants; what can I say?) and now my poor back is suffering because I’ve overdone it on a number of levels. My back warned me, but I kept pushing through and didn’t listen. I went too far.

Now, though, too much has been . . . too much.  I’ve been forced to slow down, to pay attention to my body . . . to rest and reflect and to relearn the lesson that life, just like art, also requires some balance. I think Ursula K. Le Guin would approve.

My April Reads

A change is as good as a rest, or at least that’s how the saying goes. I hope there’s some truth to it! We’re on the mainland babysitting our four-year-old grandson and rest is hard to come by. He’s not one for sleeping, and his inquisitive nature is in gear before dawn. That first morning, when he nudged me awake at 5:30 am and I replied that it was ‘too early,’ he snuggled in beside me and tried to engage. “What does too early even mean?” That led to a discussion (one sided) about how I squish my eyes tight in the morning “even like Mama.” So, there’s very little rest to be had, but there’s lots time for laughs and cuddles, crazy bath time routines and books. And here’s what I’m reading this month.

Giraffes Can’t Dance by Giles Andreae & Guy Parker-Rees

The Paper Palace by Miranda Cowley Heller

Abroad in Japan by Chris Broad

The Tattooist of Auschwitz by Heather Morris

Books read to date in 2024: 22