Reading, writing...that's what I do.

Review of KIN, by Tayari Jones

I was in love with her novel AN AMERICAN MARRIAGE, but this work felt very different in pacing, character types, and especially in use of language that binds the reader to the character and her life.

Because a reader should be able to move into another setting, another time and place, even a different WAY OF LIFE, but in this novel much of the beginnings of these characters was harsh, off-putting, so that the reader wanted to leap to a different phase of their lives, escape their pain, and at the same time understand their endurance. 

First a brief outline of the plot: Vernice and Annie, two motherless daughters raised in Honeysuckle, Louisiana, have been best friends and neighbors since earliest childhood, but are fated to live starkly different lives.

Raised by a fierce aunt determined to give her a stable home in the wake of her mother’s death, Vernice leaves Atlanta at eighteen for Spellmen College, where she joins a sisterhood of powerfully connected Black women and marries into an affluent family.

Annie, abandoned by her dissolute mother as a child, and fixated on the idea of finding her and filling the bottomless hole left by her absence, sets off on a journey that will take her into a world of peril and adversity, as well as love and adventure, and culminate in a battle for her life.

Here is an example of the Annie character’s life…. she searching for her roots, for her mother…

It didn’t happen every shift, or every week. I was not losing it. If the women were too old, too young, too bright or too dark, I let them be. My attention was trained on those who could reasonably be my mother. One night, my eyes were drawn to a woman wearing tangerine lipstick so thick it split like dying clay. She had the coarse skin and dark lips of a longtime boozer, yellow eyes too. Whatever beauty she’s ever had was faded, but there was an appealing glimmer when she smiled. 

And yet there is also Vernice, whose life is in some ways easier to understand, to read about: 

One day, I will write a list of what I learned in the first six months of my marriage. I will make a little booklet and record the recipes for beef Wellington, chicken salad with golden raisins, and pice crust with lard.

My conclusion as a reviewer: the characters are strong, inventive and committed. But I had trouble bonding with them, my fault, my own background. I wanted to recuse them during almost any given read, though I hung in to the end, finding some consolation in how Jones created them, carried them through to an ending.

A Chicago Passing

The room is the same, four walls, the windows, the bed in the corner. I have taken down the bulletin board,  all my pictures, packed them away. The worn rug beside the bed is piled with books, a typewriter locked in its case,  and my clothes, most sorted in neat rows, colors on the bed.

Rain drips down the windows, tree branches scrape the side of the house. A grey shadow lies at my feet, cast by the open suitcase, a symbol of hazy happenings…time that will fill up the future.

Downstairs, the whir of the refrigerator as it goes on. They will have fried chicken for dinner.

From my window I watch the street, cars spreading water as they travel, our world wavy wet, grey and silent. Jean and I would play in the puddles. The sloping ground around the apple tree would become a small lake. We never took off our shoes. They made big bubbles that split between our toes when we first splashed in. Such shoes now shriveled up, lying in a dusty pile in the attic. We must have ruined lots of shoes, but it never bothered us, rain our splashy toy. 

An old elm tree once stood beside the driveway, my tree where the swing once hung, where I would fly into green leaves, blue sky. I will always want to swing, to look down on the lawn flecked with yellow dandelions, or to gaze from my bedroom window, the homes of my neighbors standing straight and tall along our street, now grey-wet in the rain.

I know them all, especially Jean’s house. In summer, we sold fresh lemonade from her front porch. It was never sweet enough, no matter how much sticky sugar we added. And on that porch we often hid from the neighbor boys, who were loud, crazy, riding bikes at terrifying speeds.

Now those same boys are grown, they might also be in college or working as this rain falls, more heavily now–the street filling with puddles, the sound of the Rock Island louder and louder, the forever train only a block away. The forever train that clicks and clacks like my memoires. 

Thanks for reading…I found this recently….writers save things. Memories. Feelings. And as yesterday was Halloween, this maybe has that OTHER WORLD feel to it.

Memories are rarely shot with sunshine…unless it is a wedding, a birth. Memories are often grey, cloudy…waiting for the sunshine of remembrance to break through.  

Things I Lost and Things I Kept

It follows with thoughts we begin to have as the years pile on…they will miss me when I am gone. Because we know what it feels like to MISS someone, or some event, place or experience.

So how does anyone make life feel endless, perfect….like a smooth road ahead.

Well, my purpose today is to be POSITIVE. To reach out and see life as advancing and not departing. Like my garden, which is falling asleep, because it is late autumn, time for rest and regeneration. Like my grandson who is learning about dying leaves and change, and thus loves picking up those leaves and stones. 

But I love autumn for that reason. We ALL NEED TIME to go inward. Even when I lived in California, I could decide NOT to walk a mile every day, not to worry about my garden, which did not have that much to offer during December. And now back in Chicago, I am enjoying the deep purples and rust colors of my garden, because that is all that remains. I have put alway all my garden decorations that don’t like snow and ice. And when I walk, all the local gardens are calling out with vibrant goodbyes. It truly is wild and colorful. And so it is time to….

Celebrate! Brighten Things Up!!  As the greens and yellows of summer become the orange and purple of autumn, we celebrate with pumpkins, gourds and dried flowers. We get ready for Halloween, and in some ways putting the garden to bed (in my climate at least) can be a relief…more time to read, but also to throw on another layer and take walks as the gardens recede and sunshine becomes a desired gift. 

So what have I lost? Maybe the brilliance of the garden…but it will return. And what should I have kept? Well, I did store all my garden ornaments, wrapped them up for the winter. And I also saved some memoires…how our apple tree behaved and didn’t require a huge cleanup..how the roses were lovely and that the new plantings, gifts from our daughter Carrie and her husband Ben added so much to the garden…so yes I did keep some things…those memories. Gardens are like that. They remind you to remember, because in autumn there are some things we just cannot keep. And happy thought…there are always pumpkins.    

Writing, The Long and Winding Road (thanks, Paul McCartney)

Dear Reader,

Being a writer is hard. I can say this, because most of my readers are also writers, or people who care about me, and thus know some of the ups and downs I have experienced. Writing is: Struggle, Reward, Lessons, Experience and often Joy. 

Writing is that LONG AND REWARDING Journey. (Paul’s song is the best and often makes me cry.)

I love writing. I wrote my first PIECE when I was in the fourth grade. I don’t remember if it had a title, but it was about an avalanche, probably because we had learned about that natural disaster in Geography. It was one page, and of course had a happy ending. When I showed it to my teacher, she just smiled. But yes….even then it confirmed for me, I was a writer. 

Writing evolves from READING. You are young, reading Louisa Mae Alcott’s books…your mother encouraging you…all those trips to the library, all those amazing books you check out every week. But who wrote them? Could I do that some day? What a journey. 

Your high school writing teacher is very supportive. But then in college there is: Paul O’Dea, Michael Fortune, Mrs. Solotaroff, Ann Matazar….all telling you: you have talent. 

And of course my mother encouraged me; also one of my aunts, an editor at Scott Foresman Publishing, who handed back a short story with many suggestions, many markings on the pages. Oh well, you do have to start somewhere.

Writing is work. Writing is joy, struggle and sometimes success. It is people supporting you, and some ignoring you. But as I sit down to write…a post, a letter, a short story, an article, a novel… I am forever grateful to the two Johns in my life: my husband John Havey and my English professor brother John Pfordresher…who have always encouraged me on this long and rewarding journey. Thanks for reading.   

Dealing with Fake Literary Agents. It’s RAINING FAKES….

I know how to write. I’m a good writer. And the problem? It is hard to get an agent. It is hard to get a real agent, and then get a real publishing deal. I have known this for a long time. But I know it even better now.

MY STORY ONE.

I wrote a long novel some years ago…actually I wrote three…but one this is my favorite.

And through the years, I queried agents and they either did not respond at all….or they wrote back and made me feel like I had lost my morals: I will never, ever publish a book that deals with rape. Okay. Don’t live in the real world. Your decision.

Other agents passed me by, probably because I did not have the heavy publishing background they were looking for. Agents…many of them just don’t want to work hard. And yet, I get it. To survive in that business you have to have books that push your name to the front of the line. Well, how about working with new authors to get there….

MY STORY TWO.

So with the help of a wonderful friend, I published part of one novel using KDP/Amazon.AFTER PAPA LEFT. Did it do well? I really don’t know.

Then I published 10055 South Wood Street, the Story of a Family. It did very well. I know this, because I started getting emails from literary agents. (The woman can write! Let’s work with her.) BUT WAS I WRONG? Because I confess…that is what I thought. Never again. 

THE BAD NEWS.  

 So I chose an agent….I knew her name, had read some of the books she fostered…but it turned out that it was not her….she does not represent fiction, only nonfiction..it was someone pretending to know her and work with her. (even they did not know that she does not represent fiction!  HA HA)  DAMN. Sorry, but that is how I feel.  

 QUESTION: can we not enter the world of commerce anymore, and in doing so be able to trust people?

Two people used an agent’s name and her photo. They wrote as if the email was coming from her. And then eventually we learned the hard way….so there goes trust.

This guy had me emailing parts of my novel so he could edit them. This guy had me believing that he was preparing the novel that I had never sold to a publishing house. THEN we made them set up a zoom call…they revealed themselves to us. Unbelievable. FAKES!!  So please please be careful. 

And while all of this is happening, a young woman is writing me every day, asking for help…she wants to be a literary agent, she is starting her business…she needs tips and my help.

WHY ME?  WHY NOW? I still don’t know if she was legitimate. She disappeared. Maybe she was part of the scam….having this baby pulling on your apron every day. And were they paying her to be a distraction?! 

CONCLUSIONS: I am too nice. I need more mean genes and nasty ideas. THOUGH THAT IS NOT ME.

So what path do I follow now? I’m truly not sure. 

But one thing I am sure of….my forever novel is MINE, and I will fight to make sure no one tries to steal it from me. Be careful. The crazies are out there!

Your writing friend, Beth Havey 

PS…..10055 South Wood Street is available on Amazon.  It is a lovely read…and yes, I had the chops to believe it was leading me to a real Literary Agent.  Sadly, it was not.  

Lucy in Between, a Novel by Sarah Callender

Sarah Callender has a wonderful name for a writer, and she is an amazing one.

Sarah and I read posts and participate in discussions on Writer Unboxed, a writer’s blog that shares and comments on the process of this creative endeavor. And if I had read Sarah’s post early in the day and commented, I would often go back to see if she had replied, as her ideas were always on target and important to me.

And now…. we have LUCY IN BETWEEN. 

The New York Times states: “At once heart wrenching and uplifting, Lucy In Between  is an exploration of mental health and a meditation on grief that challenges the reader to expand their notions of home, of family of childhood itself. Samira Ahmed

And Donna Gephart, award winning author writes: “This dazzling debut shimmers with tenderness as a family breaks apart from tragedy, travels to a unique location to heal their hearts and find their way back home, to each other.”

And now a comment from Beth Havey, former teacher of English at the Secondary Level:

I TRULY LOVED THIS BOOK! THE CHARACTERS, THE PLOT, THE SETTING and also the FASCINATING AND UNEXPECTED CONCLUSIONS to the story problems. 

And we know that we are in good hands from the very first sentence: 

My best friend, Charles Chatterjee, thinks my fascination with my absent father is ridiculous. 

That sentence, so normal, something we hear a lot these days, that it quietly fades away….until it doesn’t. And there is the mother, also a musician, who seems to pay more attention to her practices and and to her instruments…than to her children. Until there is a tragedy, thus creating a story that focuses on the losing and the necessary regaining in this complicated family.  

IT CAN BE HELPFUL TO WATCH FOR CLUES: Doctors don’t know why, but Henry’s hair started silvering when he was seven, right about the time he was invited to guest solo with the San Francisco Symphony. Which was right around the time my dad left us.

And that makes perfect sense. Henry is Lucy’s brother, and in many ways her best friend. And this is a family of questions…everyone seems to live and breathe in their own silo, until there is loss…permanent loss that makes Lucy begin to look for omens, signs that there is something stable in her life. For years it has been her skill playing the violin. But not just an ordinary instrument, but a Lady of Tennant-Lafont Stradivarius, which her family owns. This being serious musical stuff, amid the daily life of a teenager, who doesn’t always fit in with the other girls in her class, which she refers to as THE ELLAS. Love that. 

But this novel is not just for teens…I LOVED IT. There is loss, painful loss…and as a result, necessary gain. A father CANNOT stay in South America forever. And yet for a while, Lucy finds herself almost totally alone in that part of world…where she finally finds love and purpose where most would not expect it. 

HEY SARAH…as a former teacher of English and a truly admiring friend…I give you an A PLUS!  

I LOVED THIS BOOK!!