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.

PS: Shameful postscript: Another (warning, shameless self-promotion ahead) thing my sister does well (besides soothing animals) is learning new skills faster than a speeding bullet. Click below to see the new book trailer she made for my soon-to-release (Jan 19) novel, The Murderer’s Daughters.

Jill saw what I needed, dove in, learned how, asked her talented friend, Linda Gutterman, to write music, and came up with, what I believe is a haunting 46 seconds. My sister, God, I love her.

The Murderer’s Daughters book trailer on You Tube.

Does everyone have sub-genres within genres for which they hold an unusual fondness?

I can’t resist a good infidelity story (really, can anything beat Presumed Innocent by Scott Turow?) I can rarely refuse the intricacies of inter-racial love (Meeting of the Waters by Kim Mclarin,) or a memoir about substance abuse (Drinking: A Love Story by Caroline Knapp. I treasure reading about the layers of an unknown (to me) culture (A Fine Balance by Rohintin Mistry) or the heartbreak of emigrants navigating a new world (my current audio/car book is Shanghai Sisters by Lisa See,) but for a real roll in schadenfreude reading, I pick up a juicy novel about novelists.

Favorites that pop into my head (too much wrapping for Chrismanakuh to research the recesses of my brain) are:

Grub by Elise Blackwell: I ate up this Shakespearean ‘all’s well that ends well’ satire, described as a “a long overdue retelling of New Grub Street—George Gissing’s classic satire of the Victorian literary marketplace—Grub chronicles the triumphs and humiliations of a group of young novelists living in and around New York City.” This book reminds writers to watch the hubris and check literary-attitudes at the door; but it does it with tender love and great humor.

Breakable You by Brian Morton: All of Morton’s novels reveal the writer in his/her quirks, foibles, and often-unattractive hunger—though never callously. It’s hard for me to pick just one of this author’s books, but I found it most memorable for the story of just how far a writer might go to gain glory, and what it life might be as the wife, daughter, or friend of such a writer.

Read all of his books.

How I Became a Famous Novelist by Steve Hely: This broad satire of Pete Tarslow, a lost soul who sets out to write a novel to impress the woman who dumped him, somehow meets what seem like disparate goals by portraying a character who is a naïf attempting to be Machiavellian. Hely skewers self-importance with a broad gun. This is a fast and funny read. Treat yourself after the holidays: spend New Year’s Day reading this.

Misery by Stephen King: Page-whipping layered with psychological insight, this is a book that will not be put down. Publisher’s Weekly said: “a writer held hostage by his self-proclaimed “number-one fan, is unadulterated terrifying. Paul Sheldon, a writer of historical romances, is in a car accident; rescued by nurse Annie Wilkes, he slowly realizes that salvation can be worse than death.”

The Bestseller by Olivia Goldsmith: This fun and gobble-it-down tale for authors is described thusly by Publisher’s Weekly: “It’s is an old adage that books about publishing do not sell, because those likely to be most interested will beg, borrow or steal them rather than buy. In the case of the latest by Goldsmith (The First Wives Club) that would be a pity, because it is a highly entertaining tale with a good share of romance and drama, considerable humor and some cynical fun at the expense of the book business; there are many recognizable characters, and a number of real-life walk-ons. (There’s even an index so book people can look themselves up, but be warned: it is not what it seems.) Goldsmith’s busy plot which makes publishing seem as glamorous and crazy as fashion or the movies (settings for two of her previous books)? offers four women with novels being considered by high-powered New York publisher Davis & Dash. There is an elderly romance queen with a fading readership; a proud mother trying to get someone to read a magnum opus by her dead daughter; a cool young Englishwoman who has penned a quirkily charming book about a busload of American tourists in Tuscany; and a desperate young woman whose devious husband is trying to steal all the credit for her true-crime roman a clef. Throw in a corrupt publisher doctoring the books to try to make his own sales look bigger, a nymphomaniac and alcoholic editor-in-chief, a staunch young editor and her lesbian agent friend, and you have the makings of a spicy literary stew.”

Fun, huh? Can you see why I had to include almost the entire review? Sadly, the book is out of print (the author, Olivia Goldsmith died six years ago) but it’s well worth getting from the library or ordering second-hand.

What do you love in this genre?

The Real Oliver!

Hurry—only three shopping days left to find those final presents for family, friends, and the postman! Looking for that WOW gift, the one guaranteed to entertain long after the wrapping is forgotten, that still fits into your budget and under the tree?

Well look no further.  Join me in making 2009 the Christmas of Books.

Over the past year I’ve spent a lot of time in bookstores, primarily for signings, but also for a few luxurious hours of selfish browsing.  I love the illusive scent of reading—paper, ink and imagination all bound together in a unique bundle of comfort and joy.  What could be a better gift?

Fortunately, everyone in my family reads.  So I’m not just giving what I would like to receive, I’m sharing the wealth.  Having unread books on the bedside shelf is like having money in the bank—pure potential.

The postman?  I’ve never asked if he likes books.  All I know is he rides a Harley.

I’ve met some great authors this year, so I’m also playing literary matchmaker.  Chris Abouzeid’s “Anatopsis,” a young adult fantasy, will go to nephews and nieces.  My publisher GemmaMedia just came out with a lovely memoir called “Yarn,” which I’m hoping my ever-knitting mother will enjoy.  My youngest niece (the only one still enjoying colorful illustrations) will get to test her rhyming and multiplication skills with “Math Attack.”  (It’s even autographed, since I shared a table with author Joan Horton at a recent booksigning.)  And two of my favorite men will unwrap—hopefully simultaneously—“Spanish Castle to White Night,” a coffee table book about racing sailboats around the world with excellent text by Mark Chisnell.

Of course, picking out books for others can be hard. It’s like trying to imagine what one of my characters would have for breakfast—except that these folks all talk back.  But it’s so much more personal than a gift card.  And there’s nothing more satisfying than introducing someone to just the right story.

Books as presents also have a valuable fringe benefit.  By spending my gift dollars at the independent bookstores that have helped to support me this year, I’m rewarding people in the book industry who still think of books as companions—not just as a part of their bottom line.

As for the postman, I think he’ll get a copy of my own book, “Oliver’s Surprise.”  Maybe I’ll spot him on his Harley next spring, sneaking a peak downward to read about a boy, a schooner, and a bump on the head.

Chrismanakuh

Please send this Jewish girl a Christmas card! Wish me a Merry Christmas! These are the words I want this week.

There are Jewish people who grow up warm and secure in their faith, where the eight days of Hanukah don’t have to compete with Christmas. These are the Jewish nurses and firefighters who take Christmas Eve shifts to ensure that their Christian brethren are home for the holidays.

Not me.

I grew up with my nose pressed right up to the glass.  Like any other bird, blind to the barrier between the glowing scene inside and me, I banged and banged until my nose almost broke.

There were no Hanukah traditions in my house, so naturally I longed for the sparkles of Christmas. One year my sister and I even hung stockings. What were we thinking? That the keys to the kingdom lay in our old limp socks? Mom was out on a date; we stayed up as late as possible, until, exhausted, we went to bed giddy with the prospect of what would be spilling out the tops of those socks. We didn’t know what Christmas stocking were supposed to hold, but boy, we knew it must be pretty damn special for the entire world to talk about it. Merry Christmas! Merry Christmas! Merry Christmas!

I am certain that my poor mother either didn’t notice the socks, or cursed Jill and I for leaving our clothes all over.

In years to come I went out with my similarly disposed Jewish friend, Debbie, bought a tiny Charlie Brown-pathetic tree on Christmas Eve and put it up in her room, decorating it with God knows what. Our long dangling hippy earrings? Her mother was not happy. I spent a Christmas with my best friend Bobbi’s family, trying to be as adorably Christian as possible so they’d invite me back.

I left home and gave up the Christmas ghost for a few blessed Scrooge-free years.

Then I became a mother. Christmas reared its head again. I was determined that my children would have a giant piece of the American pie. We lived with a non-Jewish couple in a big old Victorian House. Yay! I fell into Christmas as though I were Jesus’ mother. Religion played no role for any of us: it was simply an orgy of food, presents, lights, and Christmas stockings so full we always needed an overflow bag.

However, there was always a little (big) fly in the Christmas pie. Friends, who hadn’t stepped in a church since they were baptized, said, as though I were a crashing the gates of heaven, “you celebrate Christmas?”

The kids got older. Christmas became more and more of a cracked-glass fantasy. I would have retreated into the world of Hanukah, but I had even less to draw on for Hanukah, then for Christmas. I saved all my Jew-mojo for Passover, not having any Easter-envy and possessing Passover role models.

At this point, honey I’ve shrunk the Christmas. A miniature rosemary tree from Trader Joes has replaced the giant evergreen crusted with lights. Baking: gone. Orgy of presents: still there. Christmas morning is still filled with traditions, but they’re the ones we’ve built up, like bagels before presents. Cooking giant Christmas feast? Replaced by Chinese food.

It’s hard growing up in a world where something is shining on a mountain, and it seems everyone in the world except you is allowed up. Is it such a sin to dip a Jewish toe into this ocean of good will? Or, when the time calls, to jump right in?

Forgive me my Santa jealousy. I envy those who can turn their backs, but forgive me, I don’t yet have the will to spend the day at the movies. Can we perhaps have, Chrismanakuh? Hanamas?

Oh, Santa Baby, can you love a Jewish girl?

Hubris, thy name is me

SHE WRITES, a terrific site for women writers, asked if I’d like to be included in the group of writers they’ve invited to participate in writing a “Countdown to Publication” blog. Well, let me tell you this: having a debut novel launch includes many tasks—some Sisyphean, some plain fun, and all feeding into the monster that is the incredible me’ness of publishing a novel.

So, in the spirit of me, me, me (boy, does my husband appreciate me these days) that is building within me, I will break my rule of not posting about my own book, so continue reading at your own risk. Big head coming:

Your novel has been sold. You can barely breath. After screeching into the phone to your husband/wife/partner/sister/brother, what do you do first? You struggle to walk the balance beam between:

1) Making it the first thing you say to everyone you come in contact with (Gynecologist, in brisk no-shilly-shallying tone, “Scoot down, please.” You, in desperate-for-attention tone, “I sold my book! I sold my book!”)

And

2) Becoming frozen with modesty and fear that no one will ever buy it, so why bother talking about it (Dear Friend: “Did you hear from your agent? Any bites on your book?” You: “It was released last week. No big deal.”)

What you do first is find a way to wrap up your book in ONE SENTENCE. One. If really, really, super-needed, you can give two. Need to know how important this is? Listen the next time your boring uncle recounts the plot of 24. When do you lose the thread…hmmm? When are you shouting shut up in your head?

Point taken?

What do I say when people ask what my book is about? I say, “The Murderer’s Daughters is a dark domestic drama about sisters who witness their father kill their mother, and the effect on their lives for the next thirty-two years.”

Are there about twenty other subplots? Do I find each more fascinating and gripping than the other? Of course. Will they? No. It’s like your children. To you: most amazing daughters in the world. To others: garden-variety children. These people aren’t asking for a synopsis. They’re being polite. They want to be grounded. Did you write a mystery? Suspense? A quiet character study?

If they want more information, well, at that point you can say more. Just don’t use my uncle’s method. In the famous words of James Carville: it’s the economy, stupid. Only in this case, it’s the economy of words.

The post in which I finish my plea to buy books as gifts.

Books for Writers

Mortification by Robin Robertson: I can’t describe this collection of stories about writers describing their worst public moments any better than the book jacket copy: “ . . . dashed hopes and collapsing bowels, thwarted desire and unimpeded drinking; of fans lining up for Stephen King’s blood; Margret Drabble bidding at a mock slave auction in Dallas . . . ” If your favorite writer is bemoaning her lack of a book tour, this will make her feel better.

Muses, Mentors & Monsters: 30 Writers on the People Who Changed Their Lives by Elizabeth Benedict: This collection of essays will speak to whatever dream one has, provide a companion on the way toward realizing it, and help one remember those who’ve already helped.

Roget’s Thesaurus: If your writer friends and family members don’t have a good HARDCOVER edition of this classic, get thee to a bookstore and buy them this invaluable tome.

How I Became a Famous Novelist by Steve Healy: A fictional memoir of a man who sets out to write a best seller to impress the girl who dumped him. The perfect antidote for when reading about great literature becomes too much.

Books about survivors

Picking Cotton: Our Memoir of Injustice and Redemption by Jennifer Thompson-Cannino and Ronald Cotton: Jennifer Thompson-Cannino woke up to a man raping her at knifepoint. She identified Ronald Cotton as her attacker and his lock-up allowed Jennifer to walk through the world. Cotton swore his innocence and after eleven years, DNA proved Ronald in the clear. Amazingly, he walked out not only a guiltless man, but also a strong one. Cotton and Thompson-Cannino went on to work together for judicial reform. More amazing, they became true friends.

Columbine by Dave Cullen: Cullen methodically (and with breath-holding tension) scrutinizes the signposts that might have foretold the ongoing horror enacted at Columbine High School. This book brings to life the story of the victims, the killers, the families, the school and the media that often got the story very wrong.

Novels where you might as well give up sleep for the duration:

Mudbound by Hilary Jordan: Forties-era Mississippi is presented in shifting points of view by interacting characters on opposite sides of the same puzzle in this look at a dark time in American culture. This book moves as swiftly as the latest thriller.

The Year of Fog by Michelle Richmond: Abby’s fiancée’s child disappears while under Abby’s watch. The reader follows her as she spends the year obsessed with finding the girl. Chilling.

Every Secret Thing by Laura Lippman: A dark exploration of eleven-year-old girls, imprisoned for murdering a baby. The novel jumps to their release and the ensuing horror and tragedy which unfolds. Page-turner squared!

Novels about fathers and sons

Mosquito Coast by Paul Theroux: A crazed father drags his family to live in the jungle. Oh, yes, this is a great novel. Do I recommend it every month or is that just my imagination?

Extremely Loud and Incredibly Close by Jonathan Foer: A nine-year-old narrator does not believe his father really died in 9/11 and searches for him, using the White Pages as a tool. A heartbreaker.

Books for Christmas

Books for the holidays: almost everyone on my list gets at least one! Here are my very opinionated picks, divided into my very opinionated categories. These are not all new books, but books have a long, long life: yes?

Reading about Grief:

The Suicide Index by Joan Wickersham: The best book I read this year; perhaps one of the top ten I’ve ever read. Wickersham’s memoir of her father’s suicide strips the reader and writer bare.

The Year of Magical Thinking by Joan Didion: I could barely breathe reading this memoir of Didion suddenly losing her husband.

Good Grief by Lolly Winston: A gentle and yet absorbing ride, this novel takes the reader through a too-young widow’s year of mourning.

Novels about the World Stripped Raw:

Lonesome Dove by Larry McMurty: Quirky Texas Rangers + the wildness of the early west + terrorizing villains + incredible writing=a book that will NOT be put down.

Warday by Whitley Strieber and James Kunetka: It may be difficult to find this book, but when you locate this brilliant novel of this apocalyptic novel, depicting the world after a nuclear attack, you will want everyone you know to read it. And you will read it more than once.

Books Where Women Struggle with Food & Size:

Food and Loathing: A Lament by Betsy Lerner: This memoir by literary agent Betsy Lerner provides a compelling and wickedly funny account of Lerner’s struggle with depression and weight. Yes, that sounds like a dichotomy, but it’s simply a wonderful read.

The Little Giant of Aberdeen County by Tiffany Baker: This story of Truly, a gargantuan woman struggling to find her place in a bleak town in upstate New York, will break your heart, and you will not want to get up until you finish.

Memoirs that Trace Lives:

We Are Your Sons by Robert and Michael Meeropol and An Execution in the Family: One Son’s Journey: The first book was written when the Meeropol’s (sons of Ethel and Julius Rosenberg) when they were quite young, the second was written just a few years ago. Read separately they capture the time of the son’s lives both immediate and in retrospect; read together, they are a heartbreaking and ultimately uplifting journey through their lives—going through the horror of having parents imprisoned and then executed during the horror of the McCarthy inquisition.

Truth & Beauty: a Friendship by Ann Patchett and Autobiography of a Face by Lucy Grealy: Patchett’s unflinching story of her close and complicated friendship with Lucy Grealy, read together with Grealy’s brilliant and honest autobiography of her life after being diagnosed, at age nine, with a cancer that severely disfigured her face, provide an incredible look at both writer’s lives, with and without each other.