“Justice is better than chivalry if we cannot have both.”
-Alice Stone Blackwell 

The Internet is a tricky beast. Sitting alone, cozy in ragged sweatpants, writing while curled on the couch, it’s easy to believe that you’re cloaked in isolation, even as you spill on that most public of forums. Thus, I hesitate before committing words online. After reading a recent well-intentioned post—about an SS officer—a piece written by a friend of a dear friend, an article meant in good will, I wrestled more than usual.

The essay focused on a particular slice of the copious research this first-generation American author did while writing a novel (which I have not read) about Germany before, during, and after WWII, from the point of view of a young German woman who falls in love with a Jewish man.

During her research, the writer (through her family ties in Germany) met with an elderly former SS officer—an officer and doctor— who the writer concludes was stationed on the front lines, not in a camp.

They met in the man’s home, where a German Mother’s Cross (a program begun by Hitler, encouraging German women to have more Aryan children, which yearly—on Hitler’s mother’s birthday—awarded women crosses centered with swastikas for fertility) hung on the wall, a menorah sat on top of a cabinet, and, in an album of wartime shots shared with the author, was a photo of the officer standing with Hitler.

The author doesn’t question these displayed and shown items: she doesn’t want to discomfort the family member who arranged the interview, upset the doctor’s wife, or continue the process of“collective guilt.” Perhaps the officer was forced into his role, the author suggests. The author herself was a victim of assumption, having been taunted by being called a Nazi because her parents were German.

Despite her sincere attempt to be fair (“who was I to judge him now?” she asks), after finishing the essay I was shaken. Badly. Before writing a comment, I spent hours pondering the wisdom of ignoring the post versus attempting conversation. I didn’t want to anger or insult the writer, or publicly ‘call her out,’ and thus hesitated to commit my feelings to public paper. Still, however well-intentioned, her words felt like slaps against my history. I couldn’t get the essay out of my mind.

Not writing didn’t seem like an option.

“It is obvious that the war which Hitler and his accomplices waged was a war not only against Jewish men, women, and children, but also against Jewish religion, Jewish culture, Jewish tradition, therefore Jewish memory.” ― Elie Wiesel, Night

I never met a book by Ruth Reichl I haven’t loved, and my adoration continued with this book.

Where others were hearty meals, Not Becoming My Mother was a deceptively simple snack. (I’m certain that Ms. Reichl, former editor of Gourmet Magazine, would find a more elegant food analogy, but I, alas, am but a quick and dirty cook, though one who loves reading the work of educated ones—like Ruth Reichl)

In her previous books, the author consistently folded her cooking and restaurant reviewing skills into personal memoir—making a mixture with the consistency of magic. Her work has always been fascinating, down-to-earth, and erudite—and always offered the reader fascinating glimpses into the world of food and Ms. Reichl’s own intriguing life, which often included portraits of her sad, unusual, and, to the author, exasperating, mother.

This 110-page gem boils it all down to the author’s mother true story. It is not an apology for what she’s previously written. Or, perhaps, it is.

Any daughter whose lived her life under the thumb of her mother’s quirks and enraging mothering mistakes will fly through this book, reading of Reichl’s brave attempts to find out the truth of her mother’s life. She writes of living her life on “Mim tales”—a trait with which my sister and I can over-identify, having dined, perhaps too long, on a pathetic treasure trove of Mom stories.

But as I read the author’s unearthing of her mother’s truth (her now-realization of her mother’s eccentricities as representing being crammed into the tiniest of housewifery boxes and the narrowest of work roles) I found it hard to catch my breath, amazed at the author’s courage in uncovering her own perhaps lack of generosity towards her mother, and deeply admiring her ability to now find the heroic in her mother.

Because I was with her every step.

Like Ruth Reichl, I too berate myself for not managing to rise above the role of daughter to my mother, and become a woman and friend to her. However, perhaps when one grows up with a larger-than-life mother, that’s an impossible goal. Maybe only after death severed a relationship that held us so emotionally hostage that we spent our lives holding our breath, can we step back and offer perspective.

So, thank you Mom for being a role model of friendship, you who offered such a striking portrait of being a loyal companion to so many wonderful women.

Thank you Mom for showing such a flair for beauty.

Thank you for showing us the wonder and fun of work.

For laughing very hard. For always appreciating a good story. For your advice on men.  And women.

Yes, you were often right. About many things. And  you lived your life working your ass off. And dancing like crazy–dancing so well.

We miss you. Happy Mother’s Day.

A few days ago, at an event at the incredibly wonderful Reading Public Library (in Reading Massachusetts) one of the librarians bought my book for her mother. For Mother’s Day. Using a large amount of not-usually-available-to-me control, I didn’t say any of the following:

“Nothing says Mother’s Day like cheating, anger, and hating-being–a-mother for Mother’s Day!”
In fact, that’s true. Who the heck wants to get Little Women on Mother’s Day? Not me. Does anyone want  to psychically compete with Marmee?

No. I. Don’t.
I want to be feted with a pile of books that say:

Dear Mom,
This book is about a really troubled mother. This is a mother who truly effed up her kids.  This mother is so much worse than you, Mom!!
Love,
Your fairly normal and grateful daughters.

With that in mind, five books that will tell Mom: You are so much better that these mom-characters. We could have been so much more screwed up! These are difficult complex (not necessarily bad, but not exactly who you want to rock you to sleep) mothers in memoirs and novels. These are all books I’ve read and loved. Which probably tells you everything you need to know about me.

  1. We Need To Talk About Kevin by Lionel Shriver

“Eva never really wanted to be a mother—and certainly not the mother of a boy who ends up murdering seven of his fellow high school students, a cafeteria worker, and a much-adored teacher who tried to befriend him, all two days before his sixteenth birthday. Now, two years later, it is time for her to come to terms with marriage, career, family, parenthood, and Kevin’s horrific rampage, in a series of startlingly direct correspondences with her estranged husband, Franklin. Uneasy with the sacrifices and social demotion of motherhood from the start, Eva fears that her alarming dislike for her own son may be responsible for driving him so nihilistically off the rails.”

 2. A Map of The World by Jane Hamilton

“The Goodwins, Howard, Alice, and their little girls, Emma and Claire, live on a dairy farm in Wisconsin. Although suspiciously regarded by their neighbors as “that hippie couple” because of their well-educated, urban background, Howard and Alice believe they have found a source of emotional strength in the farm, he tending the barn while Alice works as a nurse in the local elementary school. But their peaceful life is shattered one day when a neighbor’s two-year-old daughter drowns in the Goodwins’ pond while under Alice’s care. Tormented by the accident, Alice descends even further into darkness when she is accused of sexually abusing of a student at the elementary school. Soon, Alice is arrested, incarcerated, and as good as convicted in the eyes of a suspicious community. As a child, Alice designed her own map of the world to find her bearings. Now, as an adult, she must find her way again, through a maze of lies, doubt and ill will. “

3. Terms of Endearment by Larry McMurty

“Aurora is the kind of woman who makes the whole world orbit around her, including a string of devoted suitors. Widowed and overprotective of her daughter, Aurora adapts at her own pace until life sends two enormous challenges her way: Emma’s hasty marriage and subsequent battle with cancer. Terms of Endearment is the Oscar-winning story of a memorable mother and her feisty daughter and their struggle to find the courage and humor to live through life’s hazards — and to love each other as never before.”

4. Tender at the Bone by Ruth Reichl

“Tender at the Bone, is the story of a life determined, enhanced, and defined in equal measure by a passion for food, unforgettable people, and the love of tales well told.  Beginning with Reichl’s mother, the notorious food-poisoner known as the Queen of Mold, Reichl introduces us to the fascinating characters who shaped her world and her tastes, from the gourmand Monsieur du Croix, who served Reichl her first soufflé, to those at her politically correct table in Berkeley who championed the organic food revolution in the 1970s.  Spiced with Reichl’s infectious humor and sprinkled with her favorite recipes, Tender at the Bone is a witty and compelling chronicle of a culinary sensualist’s coming-of-age.”

5. The Glass Castle by Jeannette Walls

“Jeannette Walls grew up with parents whose ideals and stubborn nonconformity were both their curse and their salvation. Rex and Rose Mary Walls had four children. In the beginning, they lived like nomads, moving among Southwest desert towns, camping in the mountains. Rex was a charismatic, brilliant man who, when sober, captured his children’s imagination, teaching them physics, geology, and above all, how to embrace life fearlessly. Rose Mary, who painted and wrote and couldn’t stand the responsibility of providing for her family, called herself an “excitement addict.” Cooking a meal that would be consumed in fifteen minutes had no appeal when she could make a painting that might last forever.”

I tried to think of a, um, sexier title for this post, but they all sounded, um, icky, and the last thing I want when I’m writing about sex is an ick factor. Writing about icky sex: terrific. Writing icky about sex: terrible.

When my first novel released, Pia Lindstrom, an interviewer from Sirius Radio, shocked me out of my I-can-handle-any-question mood when she asked something to the effect of:

So, I was surprised by how much sex is in your book. You did it so well. People say it’s hard to write about sex. How did you do it?

Um. Um. Um. Now there was a question I hadn’t been asked before. Sex is included in my work.  When my mother-in-law read one of my earlier works—an in-the-drawer-book—she told my husband that I wrote ‘sex novels.’)

Wait! Before you run to the bookstore in hopes of getting a fun sex novel, save your money. Buy something by Jackie Collins. The sex I wanted to convey in The Murderer’s Daughters was the gritty emotional side of the bedroom; the stuff we hate to admit is true.

I had to answer Pia (and fast.) How did I write about sex?

By praying no one would ask me about it.

By telling myself that my husband knows I am not writing about him (except for the good parts, of course.)

By realizing that writing about sex isn’t about insert Tab A into Slot B—it’s about the emotion behind the writhing.

By remembering what Elizabeth Benedict said in her wonderful book, The Joy of Writing Sex:

Benedict: A good sex scene is not always about good sex, but it is always an example of good writing.

It’s easier to write about sex when it’s ‘bad,’ when the character is damaging herself through the act, or using sex as panacea or cover-up, than it is to write about good sex. Perhaps it’s a variation on Tolstoy’s famous aphorism about happy families vs. unhappy families. All fantastic sex is remarkably similar in how it lights up the brain, while “I gotta get through this somehow” sex is a textured way to reveal the problems in a relationship, which leads to Benedict’s next point:

Benedict: A good sex scene should always connect to the larger concerns of the work.

When writing about my main characters, sisters Lulu and Merry, I wanted to show them reacting in wildly divergent ways to the same trauma (the murder of their mother by their father.) Naturally, their experiences of sexuality were defined by that horrendous act. If I wanted to reveal the ways they were affected by witnessing their mother’s death, I needed to go into their bedrooms, and not in a polite manner.

Benedict:  The needs, impulses and histories of your characters should drive a sex scene.

Most readers can tell when in a sex scene, the writer has stepped away from the character and inserted a boilerplate moment. It’s easy to understand why a writer might avoid writing deeply about sex. Nobody’s comfortable with the idea that readers who know them might think they are reading a page from the writer’s life.

Which means, if you want to be true to your reader, you have two choices. 1) Take the readers off your shoulder and be willing to go all the way (sorry about that—couldn’t resist) in revealing the good, the bad, and the ugly, or, 2) Skip the sex and use the f a d e – o u t.

Benedict: The relationship your characters have to one another—whether they are adulters or strangers on a train—should exert more influence on how you write about their sexual encounters than should any anatomical detail.

Can I just say how much I hate clinical words in novels? I want writers to capture the inner monologue so well that there is only a very small space between character and reader. Thus, for me, the clinical terms leap out from a page as though the writer is shouting. It becomes a ‘look at me’ moment, rather than a ‘be in the character’ moment. Unless, of course, the character is a sex-ed teacher.

What goes on in a character’s mind as Tab A meets Slot B? Are they actually describing their partner’s body? In The House on Fortune Street by Margot Livesey, the following passage of a couple embarking on their first sexual encounter reveals the emotional and physical relationship of this particular couple without a single clinical detail:

From then on it was all haste and confusion. He undid a few buttons on her blouse and left her to manage the rest while he wrestled with his own clothes. She undressed quickly, eager to be hidden between the sheets. Edward, clumsy with his underwear, took a few seconds longer. Then he was beside her, the whole shocking length of him, and they were clinging to each other. It seemed to Dara that they were struggling to surmount some huge barrier—the barrier between not being and being lovers—and they must do whatever necessary to get over it.

From this passage, the reader immediately knows that Dara is not chasing an orgasm and that she is bringing to this encounter a truckload of emotional baggage.

This is what I want from sex scenes—secret glimpses into the soul, which are possible only at our most vulnerable moments: when we break apart and when we come together—and sex is often a time when those moments collapse into one.

One of the most difficult sex scenes I wrote in The Murderer’s Daughters was one where Merry, one of my two main characters, finally realized that her married lover is one more punishing mistake in her life, a scene which ended with these words:

“Quinn wrenched from me a sad orgasm born of friction and time, and then he came.”

Writing great sex is sort of like having great sex, I suppose—losing yourself in the truth of the moment, sometimes awful moments. Except when you’re writing, you get to go back and edit it until the moments are just exactly what you want.

In The Comfort of Lies I was challenged with writing  desperate sex, good sex in a troubled marriage and then, in another marriage, bad sex as a harbinger of relationship troubles—all of it without getting weirdly clinical. In all cases, a very close third person helps, as in this scene from the supposed good marriage, as the problems the wife is trying to deny, break through.

The Xanax kicked in as Peter worked his way from Caroline’s lips to her neck. Making love could now move ahead with her body participating while her mind drifted.

Caroline made soft sounds of pleasure, trying to convey excitement that would hurry him over the edge.

“Now,” she murmured.

She wondered in whispering dirty words would hasten the act. Thinking about it, her throat closed as though she’d been inhaling dust.

She’d never been the dirty words sort.

Peter tightened his grip.

She’d once found him electrifying.

His breath warmed her neck.

Back then, she’d barely been able to survive two dys without making love.

He tensed.

She squeezed her eyes against tears.

“I can be changed by what

happens to me, but I refuse to

be reduced by it.”

Maya Angelou

When I was a reader, I spoke as a reader, I understood as a reader.

When I became a writer, I read as a writer, I understood as a writer.

I just finished “Readers Don’t Owe Authors S**t” on the online site Book Riot.  The credo of the post is basically this: writers and independent bookstores shouldn’t nag readers (into shopping Indie, posting reviews, asking for shout-outs, etc.). Much of it resonated in me. I’ve been asked to spread the word many times—and though most of the time I’m happy to help, I don’t like to feel I’ll be ostracized for non-compliance.

When my first novel debuted, it was pretty late in my game. (I was 57.) Though an addicted reader, the only “insider” information and terms I knew, came from novels such as The Bestseller by Olivia Goldsmith. (The first time anyone used the term “the list” I didn’t have a clue that’s how the cool kids referenced the New York Times Bestseller list.)  I published my first novel just around the time social media exploded (at least in my awareness,) so I’ve never experienced books or authors online, except as an author/reader—but being a reader is my identity.

As a small child, I went to the library daily. (The only books we had was a Reader’s Digest Condensed Digest, an oversized photo book about Africa with a scratchy grey cover, and a copy of Ideal Marriage by Van de Velde, hidden in my mother’s nightstand.)

Eventually, I built up a small shelf of books—spending my babysitting dollars on the YA of my time, by Beverly Cleary (Fifteen! The Sister of the Bride!), I read and re-read every book I owned. When I traded Brooklyn NY for Berkeley California, books took up as much room in my backpack as my teensy mini dresses. When I became a mother, I managed my book-a-day habit by using the library, so I could buy books for my daughters.

Books have always been the platform on which my sanity rested. Reading was a quiet private pursuit, consisting of reviews, bookstores, library shelves, and trading books and titles with friends.

Authors were akin to gods.

Is it different now? I go back to the sudden onslaught of articles such as “Readers Don’t Owe Writers S**T.” (The article references other essays.) It’s an article I agree with in many facts, if not tone. The author writes, in bold, I don’t owe you your dream career, explaining:

“I want very much for my favourite writers to write books, and I often make the choice to support that by purchasing their books.  Sometimes in more than one form. Sometimes in multiple copies as gifts. But I don’t owe my favourite writers those things. Likewise, when I read a wonderful book, I tell lots and lots of people about it. But I don’t owe that to the wonderful books I’ve loved. These are choices I make freely because I love stories and books. And when I make these choices, it is about my relationship with the person I am sharing my love of the book with. It is about neither author nor bookshop, at the core.”

The author goes on to say, “When an author I follow on social media tells me I am not doing enough to sell his or her books for him or her on social media, I stop following that author.”

I understand. Completely. Who wanted to be scolded?  It’s not a readers’ job to sell our books. I’ve winced seeing writers online doing everything from groveling to begging to screeching for readers to buy them, “like” their pages, write Amazon reviews.  I’ve winced at myself, even as I pretend that when I do it I somehow sound cute and not pathetic.

But, though books have a life outside of the writer, they are still our books.  Readers do not need to do a blessed thing after closing the last page, that is true—but at their core, these are our books. They exist only for the multiplicity of hours we spent writing them.

Stephanie Cowell, author of five novels and a winner of an American Book Award, wrote this when I asked her opinion on the topic: “I do think that kind of pushy behavior (described in the article) is beyond the pale … no one should be pushed like that. But I think if we like an author’s work or the author is living and not making a Dan Brown fortune, it is the right thing to buy the book, not borrow it.  We contribute to all sorts of things, most of us. We don’t borrow a meal in a restaurant. Of course, if we can’t afford it, then we can do second-hand or borrow by all means…but again, the author has no right to say anything. It just creates bad feelings. I remember when a friend with a lot of money sent me two remaindered books to autograph… I bit my tongue hard.”

Here’s the thing–we’re caught between the proverbial Scylla and Charybdis. Just as actors love acting, dancers love dancing, and comedians love cracking jokes, writers love writing. But though some of all of the above are doing it for a joy of craft alone, a great deal of us are doing it for a living and suddenly, in this new online world, this translated into promoting anything and everything we can. (Cute puppies! Funny kids! Adorable elderly parents saying the sweetest things!)

God save the writer with neither cuteness nor tragedy to promote, because we’re all fighting for attention. There are more books than ever. Bowker reports that over three million books were published in the U.S. in 2010 (May 18, 2011 Bowker Report).  The number of new print titles issued by U.S. publishers has grown from 215,777 in 2002 to 316,480 in 2010.  And in 2010 more than 2.7 million “non-traditional” titles were also published, including self-published books, reprints of public domain works, and other print-on-demand books.

Cable television somewhat democratized the medium, but it also brought a din of competition—the same is going on with publishing. There are fewer mainstream reviews and a greater number of consumer reviews. There is tremendous pressure to be online, get the word out, do book clubs in person, by Skype, by train, plane & automobile. Write posts. Do events. Go to festivals. Participate on panels. Form support groups. Shout out other writers. None of the above is breaking rocks, but for mid-list writers there is no money in it either. It’s done for free, or, more likely, it’s done for free and paid for by the writers. When you see those “book tours!!” you can bet that 90% of them are author-funded.

After our books are published, most writers spend months online and in person, trying to convince readers—without turning them off—that our books are worth their time and money. (Or just their time—libraries are book buyers of the highest order. Writers love having readers request our books. )

All this après-writing work requires learning the close-to-impossible: how to do it graciously and well. One (well, me) can spend hours and hours studying how to do it properly, how to find the right tone and voice, and one can still blow it. Ah, that rock and hard place: on the one hand, squirming at posting another “Me! Me! Me!” and on the other hand, studying your Bookscan numbers and Amazon ranking as though examining the Dead Sea Scrolls. How tempting, how easy, to simply post one more me-me-me about one’s book.

MJ Rose, owner of Authorbuzz—a book marketing firm—and a bestselling author (her next book, Seduction, releases May 7) says,

“Authors live in a time when what we’re asked to do, what we think we need to do, and what our publishers often expect us to do, make us look unseemly. Authors online act in ways they’d never allow themselves in person. It’s rare when I meet an author in person who acts the way they do online. One rule I use is this: before I say anything online, I ask myself is this something I’d share with someone I just met at a cocktail party? If the answer is no, then I don’t post it.”

Author Catherine McKenzie (her latest book is Forgotten) is acutely aware of this issue: “I think every writer these days has that me-me-me feeling whenever their book comes out (and in the months leading up to it and after it). I remember when my first book came out a couple of years ago in January, 2010. I dubbed it the “month of me” and was thoroughly sick of myself by the end of it. One thing I find helps is I turn that me-me-me spotlight onto other authors. It’s so much easier to say “read this!” or “buy this!” when I’m getting nothing out of it other than turning other people onto good books”. (You can see Catherine’s current such project here.)

Relentless recounting of successes by authors (the extreme-don’t-try-this-at-home version of Me! Me! Me!) can also drive other writers insane. Internationally praised historical fiction writer C.W. Gortner, (his most recent book is The Queen’s Vow: A Novel of Isabella of Castile) is the friend I need when the torture becomes too much. As we went back and forth about a recent online debacle, he said:

 That’s okay.  In some ways. I am doing my dream job. And I don’t expect anyone owes me a thing (except not stealing my book. No piracy please. I never did it to a musician: I’m glad my karma is clear.)And then, with in between all that booty-shaking, uber-gracious tweeting, and traveling, you have to write. Most authors will say writing their first book, in the quiet of non-selling, was the most comfortable. I know for me, because of the whole corporate problem my publisher is caught in (ongoing negotiations with Barnes and Noble, which has resulted in almost no Simon & Schuster books being carried at the only major chain bookstore in the United States) my promotion time has extended  beyond the normal month or two. I’ll be traveling, online and on Amtrak, from February through June, visiting independent bookstores, book clubs, and participating in events. The result is that I’m fighting for a quiet space to write. And the result of that is working seven days a week since my book came out in February.

So, are writers being unseemly? Perhaps some of us are, sometimes. Some appear me-me-me all the time. Laura Harrington, winner of the 2012 Massachusetts Book Award for fiction, says, “I like to think of Katherine Hepburn. She understood stardom and she also understood privacy.

Her desire for privacy actually enhanced her mystery and her allure.  She will always be considered a “class act.” I think there’s something nearly desperate about some of what’s going on – and that is never attractive.”

I agree with Laura. And yet, I study my numbers. I worry, I watch, and like most authors I vacillate between my desire to be Katherine Hepburn and my pull towards jumping up and down like a contestant on Let’s Make A Deal.

So, when I cringe at another’s (or my own) urges towards me-me-me, I try to remember to allocate a bit of kindness towards writers (like me)  trying to dance as fast as we can.

Time for a 2013 update!

Originally, 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 when , 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, updated once again.

Charlotte Rogan was 57 when she published Lifeboat to great acclaim. Erika Dreifus launched the outstanding short story collection Quiet Americans at the age of 41. Judy Merrill Larsen’s first well-received novel All The Numbers came out when Judy was 46.

Donald Ray Pollock was 55 when his short stories debuted, his novel The Devil All The Time launched three years later.

Laura Harrington launched her debut novel, Alice Bliss, when she was 58, after years as a playwright, lyricist and librettist. Shelter Me, Juliette Fay’s award-winning first novel came out when she was 45 years old. The Marquis de Sade wrote his first novel, Justine, at the age of 47.

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. Kylie 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. Julie Wu’s about-to-debut novel The Third Son will launch when she is 46.

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. 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. Amy Sue Nathan will be 49 when The Glass Wives releases in May.

Lise Saffran released Juno’s Daughters when she was 46. Astrid and Veronika was published when Linda Olsson was 56. Joan Medlicott published The Ladies of Covington Send Their Love when she was 65. And she published 6 books after that. Sally Koslow’s first novel Little Pink Slips was written when she was over 50.

Ellen Meeropol‘s first novel  House Arrest, came out two months before her 65th birthday.” Karen LaFreya Simpson will be 55 when her first novel Act of Grace debuts next year and Nichole Bernier was  44 when The Unfinished Live of Elizabeth D 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.

Kathy Handley’s debut collection of short stories, A World of Love and Envy launched when she was 71.

Dyan deNapoli’s story of rescuing penguins (nonfiction) The Great Penguin Rescue came out when she was 49.

James Arruda Henry learned to read and write when he was in his mid-nineties. He published his autobiography In A Fisherman’s Language at the age of 98–going on to have it be a bestseller in his town and being featured in People.

Lydia Netzer’s novel Shine Shine Shine is being launched tomorrow. She is forty years old.

Sarah Pinneo launched her novel Julia’s Child when she was forty (ten years later than she’d planned.)

C.W. Gortner was 44 at the publication of his first novel, The Last Queen in 2008–he has gone on to publish 3 more as of June 2012.

Penelope Fitzgerald published her first novel The Golden Child in 1977, at the age of 60. She went on to win the Booker Prize in 1979 for Offshore.

I was told today by the incredibly talented Elizabeth McCracken that Bruce Holbert, author of the just launched (and much lauded) Lonesome Animals deserves a place here–though I am not sure of his exact age.

Kerry Schafer‘s Between, came out from Ace in January 2013. Jessica Keener’s novel, Night Swim, launched when she was 57. Becalmed will debut when Normandie Fischer is “so far past 40 that she can’t remember it.”

In the UK,  Dorothea Tanning published her first novel, Chasm: A Weekend (also surrealist)  by Virago when Tanning was 93 years old Harriet Doerr published her first novel, Stones for Ibarra, at age 73. She was awarded a National Book Award for this work and Helen Hoover Santmyer published the bestselling  And Ladies of the Club at age 88.

“The perfect book to curl up with on a rainy day.” Marie Claire Magazine 

“Fans of Jennifer Weiner and Emily Giffin will strongly appreciate this rising star in women’s fiction.” Library Journal

“A deeply enjoyable page-turner.” Publishers Weekly STARRED review.

Q: Do you have a writing process?

I wish I had some elegant, impressive story about my glamorous writing life, but the truth is, I have three young boys and I write on the fly. I’ve piled up pages in the orthodontist’s waiting room, in the carpool pick up line, at the movie Kung Fu Panda – anywhere and everywhere I can find a little pocket of time. But now that I’m on a book-a-year schedule, I find that getting in a few big chunks of writing time really helps me meet my deadlines. Luckily I speak at book festivals every couple months, so train or plane trips, combined with a night in a hotel room, allow me not only an uninterrupted night’s sleep, but the chance to wake up early, order a pot of coffee, and write for hours. It’s blissful!  

Q: How has your background in journalism affected your writing? Did you get any of the ideas for your novels from stories you covered?

My journalism training definitely comes into play when I sit down to write a novel. I usually pick some topic I know nothing about, and I do a lot of reporting on it to weave realistic details into my books. For example, for my second novel – SKIPPING A BEAT – I decided to have my main character create a start-up beverage company. I interviewed the founder of Honest Tea twice in his office to learn about how someone could do that. For THE BEST OF US I interviewed weather experts for help in creating a fictional hurricane.

Q: You’ve also written e-stories. How does that process compare with writing longer books, and will you continue with short stories too?

Right now, I’m writing one novel every year and one short e-story every year, and I enjoy both processes (well, when I’m not wanting to toss my computer out the window). The challenge with my e-stories is that they are all linked, whereas my novels are stand alones, with a group of fresh characters coming in for each new book. My e-stories need to fit together, and enhance each other, yet also be a satisfying read if you end up buying just one. Eventually, I think the plan is to compile the e-stories and turn them into a book.

Q: Give us the cover copy for THE BEST OF US. 

An all-expense paid week at a luxury villa in Jamaica—it’s the invitation of a lifetime for a group of old college friends. All four women are desperate not just for a reunion, but for an escape: Tina is drowning under the demands of mothering four young children. Allie is shattered by the news that a genetic illness runs in her family. Savannah is carrying the secret of her husband’s infidelity. And finally, there’s Pauline, who spares no expense to throw her wealthy husband an unforgettable thirty-fifth birthday celebration, hoping it will gloss over the cracks already splitting apart their new marriage. Languid hours on a private beach, gourmet dinners, and late nights of drinking kick off an idyllic week for the women and their husbands. But as a powerful hurricane bears down on the island, turmoil swirls inside the villa, forcing each of the women to re-evaluate everything they know about their friends—and themselves. 

Q: How do you feel social media has helped publishing and/or reading in general? What about for yourself?

 Personally I adore it. I love going on Facebook and twitter and chatting with readers and bloggers and other authors. Since my job is very isolating, it’s a great way to stay connected to people, too. And in think in terms of the broader issue of publishing, social media has been a huge blessing. As we see newspapers and magazines fold and we lose those opportunities for traditional coverage and reviews, it’s amazing to be able to still get out the word about new books on social media. And bloggers have stepped in and become a force in promoting books and alerting readers to new authors, which is incredible.

“Damn it, Harriet, we can’t go on like this! You’re spending money like a drunken sailor, but I’m not seeing a dime!”

“For goodness sake, Ozzie. Spending money where? Tell me! Where?”

“Fine! How about those fancy dresses you wear to work? How much do you pay those designers, huh? Everyone but me seems to get the benefit.”

“Don’t you want me to look good?”

“I want you to give me the biggest shot at you. I want to know that I’m the important one to you–not those other guys. And until you figure out how to give me a bigger share of your attention, don’t expect anything from me. You’re not getting one more dress out of me.”

“Fine! I don’t need you anyway!”

“What about the kids, huh? They need me.”

“We’ll see about that.”

Who are these kids listening while Mom and Dad fight?

Some facts:

1. According to the New York Times:
“A standoff over financial terms has prompted the bookstore chain Barnes & Noble to cut back substantially on the number of titles it orders from the publishing house Simon & Schuster . . . Industry executives, as well as authors of recently published Simon & Schuster books and their agents, say that Barnes & Noble has reduced book orders greatly, to almost nothing in the case of some lesser-known writers.”

Judging from how much the order for my new novel, The Comfort of Lies, was reduced, I am firmly in the “lesser known” camp of writers. Luckily, my two scheduled B&N appearances were allowed to go on, but judging by the overall number of books ordered, the buy was enough to cover those events and a trickle more.

2. The events I had at B&N in Manhattan’s Upper East Side and Freehold New Jersey’s stores were wonderful. The staff was nothing less than fantastic and supportive.

Barnes and Noble bookstores have received a ton of love and money from me over the years. I have an ongoing membership, and in my attempts to be ‘fair’ I’ve often divided and balanced my book-buying dollars between independent booksellers and the chain. (And if you looked around my house, you’d see how many of those dollars have been spent. I am a fool for hardbound books; I never exit a bookstore without a purchase. I believe in book karma.)

3. I’ve been nothing but happy–nay, thrilled, working with Atria Books (a Simon & Schuster imprint.) My editor, Greer Hendricks, embodies everything I hoped an editor could be: she’s smart, caring, warm, and she laughs at my jokes. Plus, we share a deep and abiding love of Allure magazine.

Everyone I’ve worked with at Atria has been wonderful. From the top (Judith Curr) down they’re terrific and caring professionals. Even when things went wrong (glitches are inevitable) we shared kinship in solving the problem.

So, in effect, I have no dog (or am I the dog?) in the negotiations between Simon & Schuster and B&N. And, as in any family separation, we author-kids are pretty teary over the whole thing.

At the risk of sounding like a big baby, this is how it played out at my house:

Shortly before my book launch, I was told that because B&N and S&S couldn’t agree on terms, the B&N order for my novel was reduced by 90%. The display space for my book (so important when a book launches) was reduced by 100%.

Obviously Barnes & Noble outlets aren’t the only bookstores. Independent bookstores sales are growing–I’ve been lucky enough to visit many of them since my book was released. But B&N’s footprint is large and important and we were not included in those shoes.

I cried. A lot. And in the weeks since my book released I cried (and cursed) a lot more, especially when folks wrote asking why they couldn’t get my book (many readers live in towns where Barnes & Noble is the only bookstore.) They asked why Barnes & Noble didn’t like my book.

I added cringing to the crying. I pored over my reviews as though they were they were the Holy Scriptures, running my fingers over each word for approbation.

I’m not a loser, I’m not a loser.

Even though my book being unavailable had nothing to do with me, no one knew that. Staff at B&N was uniformed and unaware of the problem, telling readers everything from ‘perhaps this is a self-published book, which we don’t carry?’ to ‘you can order it, but we can’t have it sent to the store.’

One works for years on a book, through revisions, rejections, waiting, patience, more revisions, more patience. Selling it takes iron will and a thick skin. After finally reaching that goal, getting caught in something that requires you to roll a boulder of promotion not just uphill, but up a right angle, can shatter your reserve.

But you roll on.

I had a bit of sad wisdom to draw on–when my first book launched (The Murderer’s Daughters) it was caught smack on the day of the Amazon-Macmillan war. So my shock was tempered by ‘what now?” And in the sadness/relief that is misery loves company, I had partnership with M.J. Rose, whose trade paperback version of The Book of Lost Fragrances had just been released.

M.J. and I are sisters of the ‘Plan B’ set of mind. We danced with the ones that brung us and came up with our Indie Love Award, aimed at Indiebound bookstores, including other Simon & Schuster authors affected, as well as authors from other publishing houses. And as quickly as we came up with plans, Atria Books joined us in the execution. They worked hard with us to overcome the problems of not being available at Barnes and Noble, but overcoming that lack of visibility was a major obstacle to both visibility and sales.

In response to this situation, Ronlyn Domingue (Ronlyn’s debut novel, was described as “that rarest of first novels–a truly original voice, and a truly original story,” in a Library Journal’s starred review. Writing about her second novel Kirkus Review wrote, “Domingue entwines genres to cast a spell upon its reader) said:

“About one-third of the readers who contacted me after my debut novel came out said they’d found The Mercy of Thin Air while browsing in a bookstore and took a chance on it. Those front-of-the-store placements gave that novel unparalleled exposure. Readers have not and will not discover my second novel, The Mapmaker’s War, in the same way–or any books by my fellow authors who are dealing with this situation.”

Holly Goddard Jones (about whom the New York Times wrote “Ms. Jones has a talent for making even scenes apart from the central mystery feel suspenseful. She also has a precise eye and empathy to burn, bringing each of her many characters to well-rounded life.“) is grateful for the huge effort Touchstone/Simon & Schuster is making for her novel to try to combat the B&N effect. They partnered with Gillian Flynn and Goodreads to give away 1000 copies of The Next Time You See Me in the hopes of starting a word-of-mouth groundswell. It’s an example of the extreme measures the publisher must take to give books releasing during this time a fighting chance. Still, even with all that effort, Holly says the effect will be chilling:

“The situation probably looks from the outside like an impersonal clash of corporations, but most of the authors affected live outside of that world. We have day jobs, and our hope isn’t to be bestsellers but to have the opportunity to reach an audience and to keep publishing. Bad sales records haunt an author throughout her career, and so it’s frustrating to not get at least a fair shot at success in the critical first months of a book’s release.”

Amy Hatvany released her fifth book, Heart Like Mine on March 19th. Her last book was a Target Book Club Pick, she’s been lauded by authors from Jennifer Weiner to Luanne Rice, and Library Journal described her last book as “vivid and written with a depth of feeling,” but she feels no safety during this period of semi-invisibility:

“I feel a little like a child of feuding parents as they try to work out the terms of a successful separation agreement: loving them both, appreciating what each of them does for me so much, but caught in the middle and unable to take sides. In divorce, the children suffer. In this case, the affected authors do. I’m worried about how long this will go on.”

The feeling of being caught in the middle echoes with author Sarah Pekkanen, whose books have been lauded in People, Oprah, and Entertainment Weekly. Her new novel The Best of Us is releasing in April (receiving a starred review in Publishers Weekly, who described it as “a deeply enjoyable page-turner“) and she’s praying the problem will be solved by then:

“I adore my publisher and Barnes & Noble has always been so wonderfully supportive of my books, too. It’s almost like we authors are kids caught in the middle of an acrimonious divorce. We’re hurting, and we desperately need both sides in our lives. We all have the exact same goal here – to get people reading our books – and I can’t express how much I hope this will end quickly.”

Library Journal gave Jamie Mason’s debut novel Three Graves Full a starred review, calling it “a quirky and downright thrilling treat that is not to be missed.” The New York Times wrote, “Mason has a witty and wicked imagination,” yet despite her universal laudatory reviews, she fears readers won’t find her book:

“There is this sense that after all the writing, then learning that you don’t know how to write, then actually writing, then learning the rules of the business, then submitting in between the painted lines of those rules, then pacing a hole in the carpet − that after all the “hard” parts, that you’re in the clear.

Well, newsflash, they’re all the hard parts. And not just for the writers. A lot of work from an awful lot of people goes into attempting commercial success with a book. From the agents through the editors and publishers, the distributors, and the booksellers, they all have a stake in this pile of words I wrote. I don’t forget them in this tangle we’re in, nor do I feel forgotten just yet. I do, however, feel like I have terrible timing.

The thing is, there are more books. Every day there are more books. I do worry that a resolution will come way past my stop on this train. So it does hurt – quite a lot, really – to imagine that after clearing all the other hurdles, that timing will decide what happens to Three Graves Full more than any effort any of us put into it.”

Ann Hite called Gwendolen Gross‘s latest novel, When She Was Gone ”A perfect balance of darkness and intricate struggles. Mix in a nail-biting plot and you have one outstanding read,” and she’s been lauded from Glamour Magazine to The Christian Science Monitor, making it even more gut wrenching when she realized her book was caught in this situation:

“Writing is solitary. Reading is solitary. Publishing and bookstores make these two into a profoundly social act. I adore my editor, S&S, my indies, Amazon, and my local B&N, and I’m really sad that I feel ashamed to meet my friends at B&N, where I regularly recommend a pile of books (and usually purchase my own heap), and tell them no, they can’t get my brand-new release here, or Randy Susan Meyers’, or Holly Goddard Jones’; they’ll have to go elsewhere (we are lucky there are still indies, (and libraries) but so few!). It’s a disappointment, and a waste of potential, and something sadly divisive in an already difficult and passionate world.”

Debut author Hilary Reyl was featured in Oprah Magazine and USA Today for her novel Lessons in French. Her reviews have been stellar, the book’s been called a “romantic and sensual delight” but the current situation has her deeply worried:

“As a debut author, I have been elated to have Simon and Schuster as my publisher and have been working tirelessly with my publicity team leading up to my release. The fact that my novel is now virtually unavailable in the country’s only retail book chain is absolutely devastating. While I am privileged to be part of a community of writers doing everything we can to get our books out there, there is no substitute for the visibility Barnes and Noble offers.”

Multiple New York Times bestseller Jodi Picoult isn’t immune to having her sales affected, and yet in the midst of her own grueling tour for The Storyteller (working to make up for lost visibility in Barnes and Noble) she’s reached out to help other authors, including going out of her way to list authors affectedthrough her use of social media.

Picoult also took the time to share a post written by M.J. Rose, which gave a quick synopsis of the problem, along with cataloguing some of the authors made invisible by the Barnes and Noble blackout. Rose, described by the Washington Post as “an unusually skillful storyteller. Her polished prose and intricate plot will grip even the most skeptical reader,” released the paperback of The Book of Lost Fragrances in February, with almost no Barnes and Noble store availability. Now she’s readying to launch her next book, Seduction, which will be her fifth time awarded the coveted Indie Next Pick.

M.J. Rose is one of the hardest working and most generous writers I know. I pray that Mom and Dad will have kissed and made up well before Seduction comes out. Rose deserves that, as do all her readers.

 March is my birthday month. April is the cruelest month. What better time to offer The Comfort of Food?

Any book club choosing The Comfort of Lies as book club choice, (to be read anytime during 2013) will receive one copy of my limited edition cookbook, featuring recipes such as the French Lace Cookies below (complete with the story behind each dish and family pictures.)

Easy as pie to enter:

1. Choose The Comfort of Lies as your book club choice

2. Go to the book club page on my website, randysusanmeyers.com and fill out the form

French Lace Cookies

½ cup corn syrup

½ cup butter

⅔ cup brown sugar

1 cup flour sifted

1 cup finely chopped nuts

Preheat over to 325°. Combine corn syrup, butter, and sugar.  Bring to boil.  Combine flour and nuts w/liquid.  Place by teaspoon 4″ apart and bake for 8-10 minutes.

To add a wonderful and delicious flourish, dip each cookie in melted dark chocolate when it comes from the oven. If you are talented and want to add a special flourish, roll the cookies while they are still warm, into a cylindrical shape and then when the rolled cookie is cool, dip it in the chocolate. If you are like lazy, like I am, don’t worry about rolling, simply dip the flat cookies when they are cool. Lay on waxed paper while the chocolate hardens.

The story behind French Lace Cookies

When I was newly married (19!) my then-husband and I moved to a farm located between Binghamton and Ithaca, New York. His job was being a farm hand. Mine was reading, watching the one television station available (for a limited number of hours,) and gaining weight as quickly as possible. The cookies below helped wildly in that last endeavor.

We lived far from any neighbors—other than the farmer and his wife, and the farmer’s son, his wife, and their children. When the farmer’s son’s wife invited me for breakfast one morning I was ecstatic. Upon arrival she offered me a Seven and Seven (I had no idea what it was), a Pop-Tart, and a cup of depression to share. This was my introduction to the shattering of the sort of idealization that only a girl from Brooklyn could have about life on a farm.

Christmas week, the farmer’s wife invited me to a cookie party—where each guest brought enough packages of  (a dozen cookies per beribboned bag) cookies to exchange with all the guests. My excitement, though a teeny bit measured (based on my breakfast visit) was high enough for me to spend my next weekly library visit foraging for the most interesting and exotic cookie recipe I could find. My life was that much of a farm life void. (As my then-husband busily worked 16-hour days, becoming buffer and buffer I slowly morphed into a candidate for Weight Watchers—had one existed in the town of Center Lisle, New York.)

The cookies I made (below) were everything I’d hoped. Complicated, sophisticated, delicious, and greeted with faces of horror. What were these lumpy brown things brought in by the Brooklyn Jew? Clearly, they resembled nothing close to Christmas cookies. I handed out my Plain Jane bags of cookies, sans ribbons curling down the sides of the bags.  My New York bakery sophistication style sweets might as well have been wearing little yarmulkes and speaking Yiddish for how much they stood out. All the other offerings were variations on a Christmas butter cookie theme cut in the shapes of stars and Santa, and decorated (Sparkles! Red and Green Sugar! Glittering Gold Balls!) with the skill of holiday possessed Rembrandts.

My cookies looked like the homely third cousin your mother forced you to invite to the Bar Mitzvah. But they were the tastiest.