Writers talk much and write much (including me) about the difficulty of finding that perfect first line. Sometimes I want to create entire books because a great first line popped into my head. Tougher, can be that last line. Tougher because it’s culminating an entire world.

The last line is a writer’s goodbye to her characters and her readers. It must wrap up all a writer’s thoughts, without staying too long at the party, and it must leave the reader with a lingering taste of the characters—enough to let the reader feel that the men, women, and children with whom they’ve just spent hours, will continue on their journey.

And we want to believe that. When we love a book, we need to think that we may someday meet the characters again.

Last lines should have impact—but not shout. Are any of these below familiar (more…)

“At work, you think of the children you have left at home. At home, you think of the work you’ve left unfinished. Such a struggle is unleashed within yourself. Your heart is rent.” – Golda Meir

I suspect that it’s easier to find authentic novels about the difficulty of being a daughter or son than down-and-dirty tales about being a mother.  Great books about being the child of bad parents, evil parents, and crazy parents abound. Rarer are books about the authentic experience of being a mother that don’t explain away negative thoughts moments after putting them on paper. er

I understand this. We writer/mothers fear judgement. What in this world is less revered than a bad mother (and thus the shelves of novels and memoirs devoted to recovering from them.) But how soothing it can be to learn that one is not alone in experiencing the ambivalence of mothering—and that feeling does not mean doing. Inside thoughts that pop up even as one murmurs soothing words to a screeching

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Books, books, books!! Libraries in danger, great reviews of perhaps great books, cartoons and contests:

The library system in Camden New Jersey may shut down. This is an awful harbinger that should force us to speak out and offer support. One suggestion I offer authors is joining the “Authors for Libraries” program of the Association of Library Trustees by offering a small amount of financial support and a quote. (Your book title and cover will be featured.)

So, on the topic of reading, books, and libraries: a compendium of book reviews which could topple my already over piled ‘to read’ pile”

In the Boston Globe, Caroline Leavitt’s review of Color Blind: A Memoir by Precious Williams starts:

“To understand “Color Blind,’’ you must first wrap your mind around the (more…)

A Guest Post by Tayari Jones

(Randy Susan Meyers’ note: the following post,originally published on Ms. Jones blog in August, was the inspiration for my post “ReadingAcross the Racial Divide.)

In the last few years, black writers have been speaking out about double standards in the world of publishing. Among these are Martha Southgate’s NYT essay, “Writers Like Me” and more recently, Bernice’s MacFadden’s Black Writers in A Ghetto of the Publishing Industry’s Making. In these articles, both writers (who also are novelists) put into a public conversation the issues that black writers have been complaining about for years– like why is that stories about black folks that are written by white folks get so much traction. (The Help, The Secret Lives of Bees, Little Bee, etc.) How come books about us by us are not thought to be “universal”? Why are black faces on the cover of a book thought to be so alienating? At this point in the gripe session, I break out my favorite oh-no-he-didn’t moment– when someone asked me what percentage of my work is “black” and what percentage is “human.”

I have no quarrel with Southgate’s and MacFadden’s insightful observations and strident calls to action. These issues are very important and must be discussed. What I am starting to wonder is whether or not this is a battle that (more…)

I read a post on author Tayari Jones’ blog earlier this month, that hasn’t left my mind. She asks why books by black writers aren’t considered universal, starting her post with these words:

“In the last few years, black writers have been speaking out about double standards in the world of publishing. Among these are Martha Southgate’s NYT essay, “Writers Like Me” and more recently, Bernice’s MacFadden’s Black Writers in A Ghetto of the Publishing Industry’s Making. In these articles, both writers (who also are novelists) put into a public conversation the issues that black writers have been complaining about for years– like why is that stories about black folks that are written by white folks get so much traction. (The Help, The Secret Lives of Bees, Little Bee, etc.) How come books about us by us are not thought to be “universal”? Why are black faces on the cover of a book thought to be so alienating? At this point in the gripe session, I break out my favorite oh-no-he-didn’t moment– when someone asked me what percentage of my work is “black” and what percentage is “human.””

It’s not only a great post, it’s an important question for all readers and writers. For readers: you/we are missing a vast store of great books by staying within one’s cultural boundaries. We’re missing great reads, and as (more…)

Everyone hates a fat woman. Or is it that a fat woman thinks everyone hates her? Or does a fat woman simply hate herself?

As someone who’s measured her worth in dress sizes, waistbands, and, when in the midst of bravery, the hard-core truth of pounds, I’ve felt all of the above. We are a harsh country, filled with both self-loathing and a Calvinist push towards walking off, dieting away, running away from, and when all else fails, surgically sucking out unwanted fat.

Do men suffer as women do? I’m not sure. I don’t think so, not as much—not when fat men on screen are allowed to bed and wed women as lovely as Katherine Heigl. I think being fat is painful for men. I simply don’t think they’re as reviled; they need to climb far higher up the scale to merit as much hate as heavy women.

I recently re-read (even re-bought, when I couldn’t find my copy) Food and Loathing by Betsy Lerner. From far too young, Lerner’s existence rested on her body size—real and perceived. The book begins thusly:

“It is 1972. I am twelve years old. It is the first day of sixth grade, and I am standing in the girls’ gymnasium waiting to be weighed.”

If your flesh doesn’t crawl with those words, if you don’t want to either go running for a cream cheese smothered bagel, or conversely, vow to stop eating as of tomorrow, this book will still (more…)

Vacation Re-Run Post

It’s there every time I enter the barn: a love so palpable that I often feel my heart will explode. My partner and I founded Catskill Animal Sanctuary, a haven for abused and abandoned farm animals, in 2001, and what surprises me most six years into the work is not what callous people do to animals, not the long hard days, not the uncertainties inherent in rescue work. A volunteer once commented to me, “There’s so much love here it’s even in the dirt,” and yes, she was right. CAS breaths love. That is the biggest surprise.

It is unlikely I would have read that introduction to the engaging, well-written, and totally enjoyable book (okay, I want to say heart-warming, but am a little hesitant to use such a worn cliché) Where the Blind Horse Sings:Love and Healing at an Animal Sanctuary by Kathy Stevens if my sister Jill hadn’t given me a copy.

My sister and I are alike in many ways: we both eat more rapidly than a starving pack of dogs, money slides away from us faster than ice from roofs during sudden thaws, and we will both take up and research a new interest as though we were the first in the world to discover . . . you name it. The difference is, while I was probably Googling best skin serums, Jill found her way to the Catskill Animal Sanctuary where she now gives massages to nine hundred pound pigs with names, and washes hundreds of tin bowls used for feeding rescued and now pampered farm animals. It’s Jill who gave me the above book, written by the founder and director of the Catskill Animal Sanctuary, Kathy Stevens.

My sister is a good and caring person. I may also carry the helper gene—but sadly, while her generosity extends to animals, I’ve always been a bit afraid of them. Thus, here is one more reason I am blessed to have her in my life: she helps me remember why humanity should care for and treat well all animals. In this book the author quotes Milos Kundera, author of The Unbearable Lightness of Being: “True human goodness, in all it’s purity and freedom, can come to the fore only when it’s recipient has no power. Mankind’s true test consists of its attitude towards those who are at its mercy: animals.”

Each chapter in Steven’s book tells the story of another rescued animal. Rambo is an Alpha sheep who lets the staff know when another animal is in trouble. Paulie, a former cockfighting rooster, once ready to cause pain by sinking his talons, now eats lunch with people and accompanies them on errands. Franklin, a depressed pig, after years of neglect must be coaxed away from the known-comfort of his own filth—a goal finally and joyously met by the ever-patient staff. Buddy the titled blind horse, immobilizes by fear after being penned for years in barbed wire that would pierce him with every movement, is taught, through the author’s love and patience, to discover the joy of walking free.

Where the Blind Horse Sings reminded me that humanity might mean looking outside of humans to build our belief in goodness and perseverance. It reminded me how differently each person may experience joy. And it reminded me, how smart my sister is, to find such a good and special place where she can spend time healing pigs and other creatures, great and small, back to their rightful place in the world.

Get this for someone who loves animals. Absolutely buy it for anyone who doesn’t.

Above is a book cover (the Portuguese version of The Murderer’s Daughters) I recently saw. Saw as in, ‘here it is,’ take it or leave it–despite the fact that it’s a cover for a book I wrote. Covers, and the authors of the books these illustrations are meant for, don’t always get along. (I liked this one–though I had to ask why the word ‘romance’ was on my very-much-not-a-romance book. Apparently it means ‘novel.’)

Some book covers immediately scream their genre (think muscled men with long hair grasping at maidens with heaving bosoms.) Some seem designed for evoking a mood and when a particular mood-evocation becomes successful, the look multiplies (think of THE HELP with it’s moody birds.)

Few authors have control over their covers—I remember waiting for mine with anticipatory dread, knowing that I’d likely be folded into whatever St. Martin’s had planned. Lucky for me I loved the artwork, but that isn’t always the case.  Authors dream about their covers, sharing the images the moment we have them, and yet, like our newborns, we don’t know what they will look like until they arrive (in this case, by email.)

I thought about covers (great ones, memorable ones, sentimental favorites) this weekend I was reading yet another short story from IF I LOVED YOU I WOULD TELL YOU THIS by Robin Black, a book so good that I’ve rationed how fast I can read the stories.

As I picked it up, I realized it was one of those books that I kept on the coffee table as long as possible—not to show off (no one was visiting) but because the pops of color on black gave me such pleasure. For me, the book doubled (more…)

The only thing I didn’t love about Diamond Ruby by Joseph Wallace was finishing it, because then it was over and I had to leave her world. Lucky you, you can still look forward to it.

If you want the perfect book to read while you lie in your hammock this summer, even if it’s only the summer hammock of your mind, get Diamond Ruby. (And then you’re going to want to pass it on, so you may want to buy an extra.)

I don’t want to give much away, but I’ll say this: Joseph Wallace’s inspiration for his book was Jackie Mitchell, who was signed (in 1931) to an all male-team in an all male baseball league in Tennessee. She struck out Babe Ruth and Lou Gehrig. A few days later, the baseball commissioner banned her (and all women) from the league on the grounds that the sport was “too strenuous” for women.

Diamond Ruby begins in 1913 Brooklyn, when Ruby Thomas is seven, and then shoots us into 1920’s New York in a manner which, for me, captured the danger and wildness of that era in a way I’ve never experienced. Ruby’s story is half fairy-tale, and half knuckle-biting suspense (there were times towards (more…)

While readying to write about Professor Cromer Learns to Read, I searched for a quote or statistic that would put in perspective the overwhelming job families have caring for brain-injured loved ones, words that said how much we are failing brain injured soldiers returning from war, athletes cast aside after they’ve suffered irreparable damage to their brain, those who’ve fallen, those who’ve been in car accidents—all our mothers, fathers, wives, husbands, friends, partners, and children who struggle to make it back and most of whom will never be the same.

As Cromer says about many things, “all the above is true”, but instead, I’ll offer the words Janet Cromer said to her brain-injured husband each night:

“Alan, the joy of my life is waking up with you each morning. The joy of my life is going to sleep with you each night.”

Before his acquired brain injury, anoxic brain damage (and later dementia (more…)