I tried to resist writing this—especially after my plea against categorizing authors.  Plus, so many of us hide our age in this world of never-get-old, unearthing this information, even in our Googlized world, was difficult.

But, recently, along with the plethora of lists of writers under 40, I was faced with the declaration that, as headlined in a Guardian UK article about writers, ‘Let’s Face It, After 40 You’re Past It.”

Then I read Sam Tanenhaus opine in the New York Times that there was “an essential truth about fiction writers: They often compose their best and most lasting work when they are young. “There’s something very misleading about the literary culture that looks at writers in their 30s and calls them ‘budding’ or ‘promising,’ when in fact they’re peaking.”

Thus, in the interest not of division, but of keeping up the flagging spirits of those who don’t want to be pushed out on the ice floe until after publishing all those words jangling in their head, I present 40 0ver 40:

Paul Harding, author of Tinkers, won the 2010 Pulitzer Prize with his debut novel, published when he was 42. Robin Black, author of If I Loved You I Would Tell you this, was 48 when she debuted this year. Holly LeCraw published her debut novel The Swimming Pool at 43. Julia Glass was in her early 40s when she published Three Junes. Charles Bukowski’s first novel, Post Office, was published at 49.  James Michner’s first book, Tales of the South Pacific was published when he was forty—he went on to publish over 40 titles. Sherwood Anderson, author of Winesburg, Ohio published his first novel at the age of 40. Amy Mackinnon debuted Tethered in her 4o’s.

Henry Miller’s first published book, Tropic of Capricorn, was released when he was over forty. Tillie Olsen published Tell Me A Riddle just shy of 50. Edward P Jones was 41 when his first book Lost In The City came out. Claire Cook published her first novel at age 45. Chris Abouzied published his first novel Anatopsis at 46. Kyle Ladd was 41 when her debut, After The Fall, was published.

Lynne Griffin published her first novel, Life Without Summer at 49. Elizabeth Strout’s first novel Amy & Isabel debuted when she was 42.  MJ Rose first novel came out when she was in her mid forties. Melanie Benjamin was 42 when she debuted. Therese Fowler was forty exactly when Souvenir debuted.

Margaret Walker wrote Jubilee, her only novel at 51. Raymond Chandler debuted at 51 with The Big Sleep. Belva Plain published her first novel, Evergreen, at 50. Alex Haley published his debut novel Roots when he was 55. (His first book, the nonfiction The Autobiography of Malcolm X was published when he was in his mid-forties.) Jon Clinch debuted with Finn at age 52. In 2010 his wife Wendy Clinch published Double Black.

Also in 2010 Iris Gomez published Try To Remember in her fifties, as did Joseph Wallace with Diamond Ruby, and I published The Murderer’s Daughters at 57. Sue Monk Kidd was 54 when she debuted The Secret Life of Bees. Annie Proulx’s first novel, Postcards, was published when she was 57. Jeanne Ray published debut, Julie and Romeo in her fifties.

George Elliot’s first novel, Adam Bede, debuted when Elliot turned 50.  Isak Dineson’s first, Seven Gothic Tales came out when she turned 50.  Hallie Ephron author of Never Tell A Lie began publishing fiction after fifty. Jackie Mitchard was past 50 when The Deep End of the Ocean debuted. Richard Adams debuted with Watership Down at 52.

Laura Ingalls Wilder published her first novel (beginning the Little House series) at 65. Harriet Doerr won the National Book Award, for Stones for Ibarra, written when she was 74. Katherine Anne Porter published her only novel, Ship of Fools, at age 72. EJ Knapp just debuted Stealing The Marbles, saying “I’m so far past forty I can’t remember it anymore.” Norman McLean wrote A River Runs Through It at age 74.

When compiling this list, Ellen Meeropol asked: “Do I count? My first novel, House Arrest, will come out in February, two months before my 65th birthday.” Karen LaFreya Simpson will be 55 when her first novel Act of Grace debuts next year and Nichole Bernier will be over 44 when The Unfinished Live of Elizabeth D is published in 2012. Yes, that’s my answer, Ellen. We all count.

This is only a list of first novels. Compiling lists of bestselling, Pulitzer Prize winning, Orange Prize winning, etc. books written after the age of 40—that will take several essays.

“I was born twice: first, as a baby girl, on a remarkably smogless Detroit day in January of 1960; and then again, as a teenage boy, in an emergency room near Petoskey, Michigan, in August of 1974.” Opening to Middlesex by Jeffrey Eugenides

I read that sentence and I immediately want to re-read Middlesex.

Sometimes I think I can write an entire  book in the time it takes me to revise the first paragraphs of a novel. At the very least, I can write 3 chapters in that time. Lately, as I’ve been lost in the world of revision, when I read, I find myself studying the first paragraph.

What do I want from that introduction? Set up. Intrigue. A gotta-keep-going.

“After my brother went missing, my parents let me use their car whenever I wanted, even though I only have a learner’s permit. The didn’t enforce my curfew. I didn’t have to be excused from the dinner table. The dinner table, in fact, had all but disappeared, covered with posters of Danny, a box of the yellow ribbons that our whole neighborhood had tied around trees and mailboxes and car antennas, and piles of the letters we’d gotten from people praying for Danny’s safe return or who thought they saw him hitchhiking along a highway a couple states away. I didn’t have to do any more chores.” Opening to The Local News by Miriam Gershow.

It’s impossible for me not to continue reading a book with that beginning.

Each time I try convincing myself that I don’t have to spend hours, weeks, days on the opening, I remember my own book buying habits:

Go to bookstore. Pick book up (based on some inexplicable reaction to the title, recognizing the author’s name, or perhaps the color of the jacket?)  Open book. Read first paragraph.

Read book flap. Glance at blurbs. Briefly. Neither of those will make or break a purchase for me, but the next step will. I open the book and read the first (more…)

Tricks and Tactics

Hard writing makes easy reading. Wallace Stegner

I’m in the final gasps of revising a manuscript and, once again, I’m grateful that a friend’s fresh eyes gave me a proverbial kick in the manuscript. Whether I’m drowning in delight at my own cutesy-wootsy phrase, or persisting in beating the reader over the head with how important the d r a m a of the situation is, well for those times, I gotta have friends. Honest friends. Honest friends with eye for the ick.

Whether you’re ruthlessly judging your own work or a friend’s, you should look out for the problems we all tend towards:

1) Shrugging, grinning, and grimacing: Are your tics showing? All of us have writing tics—repetitive descriptors we repeat. Discover yours or have someone point them out (If I let them, all my characters will lean toward the other characters during times of stress) and remove them.

2) Let the reader rest after you jazz them up: Have you balanced scenes and sequels? Can you feel a good rhythm of active scenes vs. reflective sequels? (Scene: Maria snuck the diamonds from the dresser as Mama slept. Sequel: Maria researched the legality of taking her mother’s jewelry, anxious to see if she’d do time.

3) Don’t make the reader insane! It’s really not artsy to make the reader guess where the characters are in time and place. Are your Transitions clear and smooth? Are you moving the reader through time? Sliding effortlessly into flashback? Showing that settings have changed? Showing changes in mood, tone, emotion, weather, and POV?

Have your transitional sentences do double duty: The following day, rain kept Elliot from getting in his daily run. The enforced laziness made him nastier than usual—making it a good time for Maria to hide out.

Thus, in two sentences we learned: Elliot has a temper, he runs, Maria is scared of him, and it’s raining.

Practical strategies I use

1) The first read: After the first draft cools off (the longer, the better) read it from front to back like a book. Printed out.  I put it (double-sided) into a three-hole punched binder—so I can sit back and turn the pages, trying to fool myself that I am actually reading a ‘book.’ One smart writer I know actually prints out one paperback copy through Lulu.

Read your work before you re-read collected critique from your writer’s group, before doing computer tricks, before micro-changes. Don’t revise as you read, just mark it as you go, writing  down thoughts such as: Make Maria older. Maria’s hair changes color in Chapter 4, 8 and 9! Chapter 3 is boring.

I write TK for ‘to come’ in large red letters next to the clumsy stuff that bothers me, as a way to say:  rewrite this junk. I can’t remember where I picked up “TK” (Editors mark?) but it lets me read through the junk without feeling that I have to stop and fix. I scribble MEGO (my eyes glaze over) every time my work doesn’t even hold my interest.  Trust me, if you’re darlings bore you’re your reader will fall asleep.

2) Post Draft Outlining helps you see what you have, which is probably different from what you planned. Taking the time to do this helps you envision the larger picture.

After finishing each draft, update your outline chapter-by-chapter outline. I use a spreadsheet to show POV, setting and main conflicts of each chapter. This serves not only to orient me, but helps me avoid repetition (like realizing I’ve set half my scenes in Maria’s kitchen.)

I enter chapters and main events into an actual calendar for a visual at-a-glance method of orientation. (You can print ones from Word and other programs.)

3) Search and Replace and Highlighting: MS Word’s Control F action (command F in Mac) helps me more than any other. I use it for universal changes (oops, I should have named the maid Zita instead of Jane.) I use it to find tics (wow, the word ‘lean’ comes up 2300 times!) I use it to locate weak writing (for instance by highlighting passive words.)

As example, the offending word “was” is insidious. I just looked at an early document vs. a more recent iteration and saw the number of “was” went from 1678 to 971. Highlighting all the ‘was’ in your manuscript will force you to re-work dull or weak sentences:

Original Sentence: I was making a mess as I was baking the blueberry pie

Revised Sentence: I made a mess when I baked the blueberry pie.

Better: After baking the pie, greasy flour and sugar covered the kitchen counter.

Removing Tics: Find and highlight your ‘tic’ words. I searched and highlighted ‘sigh,’ ‘sighed’ and ‘sighing’ in my last revision. (When I went from Revision 1 to my most recent, I only reduced ‘sighs’ from 29 to 15. Sigh.)

Overused words: Swearing in small doses, in fiction as in life, can be effective. Overuse waters down the impact and spoils the read. Find, highlight, and fix.

4) Reading aloud: I hate doing it—but I find it invaluable. Read the entire manuscript aloud. The bad parts, the clumsy parts, the rotten dialog, the typos, the unrealistic and over-blown, the underwritten, the lazy—it will jump out when read aloud. DO THIS!

I have moved from self-reading to using a text-to-voice reading program. I use two computers—while one reads out loud, I fix text on the other screen—pausing the program as needed (oh, and it is needed plenty.) For me, Natural Readers has been the best of the text-to voice programs. I found the version I paid for in Natural Readers superior to the free program.

5) Gut check. Sadly, often what we think is great isn’t necessarily so. What we think is groan-worthy in our own writing, generally is. Therefore, if you think it’s broke, fix it. In addition, if there is a line you love so much you’re willing to keep entire shaky or unneeded scenes to support it—kill that line!

6) Orphanage: Uncertain about a cut? Sad? Afraid you may need it later, but don’t want to search through entire manuscripts? Make a computer file labeled orphanage or excised scenes and put in your cuttings. I find it reassuring.

7) Websites I’ve used:

1. http://www.cliches.biz/clichecleaner/ the free download alone is worth the trip.

2. http://www.refdesk.com/ Dictionary, thesaurus, medical, government, statistics

3. http://www.ssa.gov/OACT/babynames/ Find the top 500 names for any year

4. http://www.infoplease.com/index.html Atlas, dictionary, thesaurus, encyclopedia, etc

5. http://www.wsu.edu/~brians/errors/errors.html#l Common English errors

7. http://andromeda.rutgers.edu/~jlynch/Writing/index.html Guide to grammar and style

8. http://www.askoxford.com/?view=uk Grammar view from Great Britain

9. http://scholar.google.com/ Research friendly

10. http://answers.google.com/answers/ Ask and answer questions

11. http://thesaurus.reference.com/ Thesaurus/dic-medical and legal dictionary, translates

12. http://www.foodsubs.com/ Cooking terms

13. http://legal-dictionary.thefreedictionary.com/

14. http://www.getty.edu/research/conducting_research/vocabularies/ Art, architecture, geography

15. http://www.fao.org/aims/ag_intro.htm multilingual vocabulary/ terminology of agriculture, forestry, fisheries, food, and related domains (e.g. environment).

16. http://www.howstuffworks.com/ What doesn’t it tell you?

7) Recommended Reading for Revision

Between the Lines: master the subtle elements of fiction writingby Jessica Page Morrell

The Modern Library Writer’s Workshop by Stephen Koch

Writing Fiction: A Guide to Narrative Craft by Janet Burroway

On Writing by Stephen King

Self-editing for Fiction Writers by Renni Browne and Dave King

Roget’s International Unabridged Thesaurus (The old fashioned harder to use kind—nothing matches it.)

“The discipline of the writer is to learn to be still and listen to what his subject has to tell him/her.” Rachel Carson

Just when you think you’re done with revision, guess what? There’s room to do one more (or maybe two, or three.) The smartest thing my agent did for me recently (uh, except for selling my book) was suggesting that one more revision on my current work-in-progress would be beneficial. (Her words were a little more pointed, actually. But that’s why I love her.)

I don’t know about you, but I read books with an eye towards how well they were revised. Not just well written, but well revised, because it’s between the first flashes of imagination and the last comma switching that the magic occurs. Sometimes I think the formula is this:

More work for the writer=more pleasure for the reader.

It’s difficult  to see our own mistakes. I see this all the time when I’m writing posts. I’ll dash one off, think it’s just swell, publish it, and then cringe two weeks later when confronted with my clunky phrasing and grammatical errors.  Of course I can delete a post and pretend it never existed or I can revise it post-production and pretend it’s always been like that. With a book, once it’s on the reader’s shelves, that’s it.  Revise in haste, cringe in leisure.  (Who among us hasn’t opened our published book and wished we could change this word, that construction?)

“Writing is rewriting. A writer must learn to deepen characters, trim writing, and intensify scenes. To fall in love with a first draft to the point where one cannot change it is to greatly enhance the prospects of never publishing.” Richard North Patterson

My first job in revision is:

Macro revision and deconstruction

“Try to find your deepest issue in every confusion and abide by that” D.H. Lawrence

In my first revision (of many, many, many) I ascertain the over-arching questions, which will frame my revision point of view:

A) Are you certain of the theme(s) of your book?

“Theme is not imposed on the story but evoked from within it—initially an intuitive, but finally an intellectual act on the part of the writer” John Gardner

What is your central idea, your connecting thread? (for example, in my book, The Murderer’s Daughters, interlocked themes I recognized after the writing was family loyalty and the limits of family loyalty.)

B) Are you certain of the premise(s) of your book?

“A premise is the truth the story proves, and helps reader extrapolate meaning from events.” Jessica Morell.

What beliefs does your story rest on? (For example, in my book, one premise was that family violence ripples through generations.)

C) Are you clear about the motivation(s) of character(s)

“Make the characters want something right way, even if it’s only a glass of water.” Kurt Vonnegut

Why do your characters do what they do? (One motivation I saw for my character Lulu was shame; for her sister Merry, fear was a stronger motivator.

D) Do you know your character’s crucible?

“Surmounting difficulty is the crucible that forms character.” Anthony Robbins

Crucible:  1. vessel of a very refractory material (as porcelain) used for melting a substance that requires a high degree of heat 2: a severe test 3: a place or situation in which concentrated forces interact to cause or influence change or development. (For example, in my book, when the daughters and nieces of my point of view characters are in danger, that becomes their crucible.

E) Is your dramatic question(s) answered?

“Writing fiction has developed in me an abiding respect for the unknown in a human lifetime and a sense of where to look for the threads, how to follow, how to connect, find in the thick of the tangle what clear fine line persists.” Eudora Welty

What is the over-riding question of your book, what is the gotta-know? (In my book, a dramatic question I recognized was whether or not the POV characters would be re-united with their father.)

F) Do you know your story?

“Fill your paper with the breathings of your heart.” William Wordsworth

What happens, that’s your story. How it happens, that’s your plot. Does your plot move the story along? Have you shown your character’s change? Are all conflicts and loose ends resolved? Does your plot structure reveal the story in as gripping a manner as possible?

G). Do you have Tension?

“If my doctor told me I had only six minutes to live, I wouldn’t brood. I’d type a little faster.” Isaac Asimov

How is your ‘gotta know?” Why would the reader turn the page or move past the first five pages? Do you have questions they want answered? Why will they care about this character(s)?

“It is splendid to be a great writer, to put men into the frying pan of your words and make them pop like chestnuts.” Gustave Flaubert

Coming in Part 2: Checking your technique

A GUEST POST BY NICOLE BERNIER

We all have them: scenes that stick in the mind well after the book goes back on the shelf.

The action is portrayed so vividly, or the reader is put so thoroughly in the brain of a character, that few things short of five-alarm fire could make us close the book and walk away. The writer has scored.

A scene in the novel FALL ON YOUR KNEES by Ann-Marie MacDonald grabbed me this way years ago. It’s night, and a young girl sneaks a newborn out of the house with the intention of baptizing it in the river. You can see where this is going, and it still pains me to write it, that’s how disturbingly well done it is.

The girl tries to emulate prayers she’s heard the priest chanting. She is waist deep in the water, and as her nightgown billows

around her hips, she wishes she’d unpacked the family christening gown. Then she loses her grip. She reaches, hand over hand in the dark, but the small form eludes her as it sinks and then as her hands continue to scrabble along the bottom.

Years later it is still toxic for me in the retelling. But I’ve read plenty of grueling books. So what made this scene so unforgettable?

First, it is simply written with no gratuitous drama. None is needed with the emotional lay-up shot that is the loss of a child at the hands of another child. It would be easy to discount the scene if the author had gone for a cheap score, tacking on several wrenching sentences or (more…)

A Guest Post by Henriette Lazaridis Power

For a writer, I’ve been acting a little strange lately. I’ve been driving around eastern Massachusetts with a pre-amp and a pop screen and other assorted pieces of sound equipment in a large messenger bag, and wielding a folded-up microphone stand in one hand. I’ve been poring over sound files, cutting out extra-long pauses and noticing that I’m starting to recognize the shape that particular words form in the sound waves of Garageband. I’ve been working with short fiction, making editing suggestions, commenting on tone. But none of it has involved looking at actual words.

Saturday May 1st marked the launch date for my new writing venture: The Drum, A Literary Magazine For Your Ears. The Drum is a lot like other (more…)

A Guest Post

By Nicole Bernier

(Muse Post Below!)

You’re writing a tense scene, really in the thick of it: An aging actress is holding a handful of pills. She’s been offered the role of the star’s mother, rather than that of the star.

She lifts glass of water toward her mascara-streaked face, pills cupped in her other hand. She will miss the feel of crystal. The reader is with you, waiting for that actress to throw back her head, give a final cry of hopelessness and say goodbye to all that.

But suddenly, you’re off.

You, the writer, cut away to backstory. And the reader, instead of getting the big gulp, gets an overdose of the actress’s memories of her grandfather’s pharmacy. The tactile joy of powders and jars, the unyielding grind of mortar and pestle. The social stress of classmates seeking free candy. Even a short rant on the demise of the neighborhood mom-and-pop pharmacies. By the end of the four-page digression, your reader has had a lovely romp through the economic rise of CVS, but can barely remember the actress and her pills.

Of course I’m not speaking from experience. I mean, it’s not as if I’ve had “Stay in the moment!” or “TOO MUCH DESCRIPTION” ever written in the margins by my agent or editors.

But let’s say, for the sake of argument, you do have a digression problem. I see you chafing at the word “problem,” so let’s call it a gift, instead. The first step, then, is admitting you have a gift.

In skilled hands, a digression can be an effective thing, lovely and looping and brilliant. It can reinforce a theme by juxtaposing a related event, and add depth to a scene by linking to an episode in a character’s past. It can offer poetic observations, scholarly extras, and sometimes just a nice break in the action. Moby Dick is chock full of them; whether or not you’re a fan of those leviathan asides, without them, Melville’s masterpiece would be just another fish tale (and probably half the length).

The best writers layer scene upon scene so well we’re not even aware that we’ve been diverted to another path. Less well done, and you need a truckload of breadcrumbs to lead you back into the flow of the story.

But know this: No matter how lyrical your prose or how insightful that jewelbox of an anecdote, when you cut away from the forward pace of the story, you do break the narrative tension.

So what’s the difference between a digression that’s effective, and one that isn’t?

Start by asking yourself some tough questions.

1)    What does this really add to the story, and is it necessary HERE?

2)    Do you use too much digression throughout the book? The last thing you want is the reader ticked off by yet another lengthy plot interruption. (“Oh, great. Just when it was getting good.”)

3)    Is it appropriate in this situation to cut away from the action? If a character stumbles upon something disturbing, he probably isn’t going to pause to provide a lengthy mental riff on the pictures on the wall. Unless, of course, you intend to make a statement about the character’s dissociative state.

4)    Be honest: As a reader, would you be tempted to skip ahead through this “boring part” and find out what happens next? Or, worse…

5)    By the time the digression comes in for a landing, were you so distracted by mortars and pestles that you forgot the actress was even about to do herself in? If so, goodbye, narrative tension.

So many authors make great use of digression, but in the end, I suspect it comes down to a matter of taste; some readers are just more willing than others to be led through the maze as a part of the story experience.

Nichole Bernier is a freelance writer based in Boston, and has been a contributing editor with Condé Nast Traveler magazine for 12 years. Before moving to Boston she was on staff writing features on golf, skiing and current events. She also served as the magazine’s Ombudsman, writing a Dear Abby-style column that mediates travel disasters, and as a television spokesperson. She received her master’s degree from the Columbia Graduate School of Journalism, was a Senior Editor at Boston Magazine, and written for magazines including Elle, Self, Health, Men’s Journal, Child, and This Old House. She has participated in fiction workshops at The Writing Center in Washington, D.C. and at Grub Street in Boston, and is working with her agent on revisions to her first novel. She lives west of Boston with her husband and five children. Nichole can be found on Twitter at @nicholebernier.

The first time I went to Muse and The Marketplace, Grub Street’s annual conference, I was so frightened that I could barely hold to the promise I’d made to myself: to speak with one agent. That’s all, I promised myself. One agent.

I did it. Nothing came of it, but I did it, and believe me, that was pushing myself way out of my comfort zone. I sat at one of the tables where you paid fifty dollars to sit with authors, editors and agents. I remember none of them, because I held my breath the entire time, certain they wondered why this middle-aged lady was shelling out fifty bucks when it was so obvious that she was a complete and utter loser.

I spoke to two people:

1) A man who told me he was writing a (humor) book on menstruation (really) called “Riding the Red Pony.” I am not lying.

2) I briefly spoke with a young woman, Becky Tuch, who was young and beautiful and I was certain was wondered why this middle-aged complete loser was at this conference, rather than home fluffing pillows or ironing her velour pantsuit.

But I did listen to Andre Dubus III, Matthew Pearl and Gish Jen as they spoke about their lives as writers, and though I felt very nose-pressed-against-the-glass, I felt myself being pulled ever more towards my goal and dream of publishing a novel. For me, there were no celebrities, no actors, or rock stars, who could excite me as did these writers.

Last weekend, I had the great good fortune of being on a panel at the Muse. Even more fortunate for me, it was a panel led by the most generous of writers, Jenna Blum, to whom I owe a great deal after having the great good fortune of participating in her Master Novel workshop at Grub Street.

Jenna, like so many at The Muse, is a giving writer, who understands the importance of putting out a hand after her own success (having become a NYT bestseller for her first book, Those Who Save Us, her legions of fans await the May release of The Stormchasers.)

Lunchtime, I sat with Elinor Lipman (at a table where others were paying fifty dollars—though I am certain it was a connection with Elinor, the editors and the agents they lusted for) who was as accessible and caring as she is multi-published.

At a party the previous evening, I met one of my all-time writing heroes—Dr. Pauline Chen, author of Final Exam, who, as she listened to me gush, put forward the warmth of one’s dream mother and who seemed genuinely thrilled about my book.

The Muse and The Marketplace is sometimes a place where one’s nose is pressed against the glass, and yet it is also a great equalizer. It’s where NYT bestsellers and multi-prize winners happily offer advice to those still climbing the ladder—no matter their age.

Actually, age disappears with the shared joy of books and writing. For instance, that beautiful young woman, Becky Tuch? We ended up sharing the joys of Jenna’s Master Novel workshops, being in a writing group together and are now partners with 11 others in a multi-writer blog.

Oh, and we’re also friends.

Thank you Grub Street. You’ve supported and grown a community of writers in Boston and beyond (neophyte to Pulitzer Prize winners) with respect and love for all.

Guest Post

By Miriam Gershow (author of The Local News)

Most writers I know are reading fetishists.  We each have our peccadilloes, getting hot and bothered by a particular aspect of storytelling, which we seek out over and over again.  For some, it’s the lyrical sentences that send shivers down their spine.  For others, a vivid description of setting makes them go weak in the knees.  Me, I’m a sucker for narrative voice.  Nothing pulls me into a story as quickly or haplessly as an engaging narrator.  And by engaging, I don’t necessarily mean likeable or funny or even particularly clever. I mean a narrator who authentically human, in whatever frail, flawed or crazy way that might mean.

There are the classic narrators–Holden Caulfield and Humbert Humbert come to mind at the top of the list.  Here, I present you with several others.

1. Edwin Hanratty in Jim Shepard’s Project X.  Spend these164 pages with Edwin, and he will break your heart.  To call this a “school shooting” book is to oversimplify the achingly lonely, alienating, utterly believable world Shepard constructs of junior high school.  Edwin all too believably falls through the cracks of home, school and the larger community.  And he tells his own story in the voice of a child, without ever being childish.  He is, from the opening page, perceptive, honest and doomed.  The closing paragraph will crack you open and make you want to jump into the ink to rescue him.

2. Andrea Marr in Blake Nelson’s Girl.  Oh Andrea Marr, how do I love thee?  Let me count the ways:  You have the pitch-perfect vocabulary and cadence of a high school girl.  You capture, in turn, the boredom, distraction, preoccupation and longing that make up teen life.  You are smart and sensitive and keep me flying through the pages.  You think you understand yourself in the way that all teenagers think they understand themselves, while at the same time being an endearingly confused mess.  And best of all, you were written by a man.  A grown-up man.  Read this book for the story and the characters and great depiction of Portland OR, but best of all to marvel at how well Nelson flawlessly channels the voice of a teen girl.

3. Lionel Essrog in Jonathan Lethem’s Motherless Brooklyn.  Think it’s a gimmick to have a detective narrator with Tourette’s-like outbursts, who trips over, stutters through and garbles the language?  Then you haven’t read Motherless Brooklyn. Lionel Essrog is trapped in himself, though the readers will feel anything but trapped.  He is hilarious, wise and vulnerable all at once.  The detective story is interesting, though not nearly as interesting as the narration.  Flip to any page for Essrog’s wry voice.  I just did, and I landed on this sentence: “The big Nazi cat went on raking up thread-loops from my trousers seemingly intent on single-handedly reinventing Velcro.”  What more do I need to say?

4. Kathy Nicolo and Colonel Behrani in Andre Dubus III’s House of Sand and Fog.  Do I ruin my credibility as a high-falutin’literary fiction writer by selecting an Oprah pick?  I don’t care.  It’s worth it in this case.  The remarkable narrative feat pulled off by Dubus is crafting two diametrically opposed, utterly distinct narrators who are equally believable and equally sympathetic (or unsympathetic, as it were), so that the reader is endlessly pulled back and forth between the two voices with no safe place to land.  This makes for an unsettling and deeply compelling reading experience.  And I haven’t even mentioned the fact that what Dubus does with the Colonel Behrani narration near the end of the book breaks every rule of first-person storytelling and is absolutely stunning.

Miriam Gershow is the author of the recent debut novel, The Local News, described by Janet Maslin of the New York Times as  “Unusually credible and precise… deftly heartbreaking.” Gershow lives in Eugene Oregon where she is at work on her next novel.