In Praise of Libraries

By Pamela

As a kid, I felt pretty envious of my cousins' lifestyle. A real-life city mouse/country mouse saga was being played out with me as the mouse who lived next door to farmers and rode my bike down dangerous asphalt roads without a sidewalk to separate me from oncoming cars. Our trees and flowers grew without much thought or attention, and dogs ran loose and free. My nearest playmates, Connie and Brenda, lived over a half-mile away. But I really never labeled myself 'deprived' until I realized my cousins had library cards and, to me, that was almost akin to royalty status. Well, the library and access to a neighborhood pool.

I did have wonderful school libraries and count those librarians as some of my most treasured teachers. In fact, I stayed in touch with Mr. Wray, my elementary school librarian, up until my 20s--and that was before Facebook! But without access to a library in the summer, I was left to my own wiles and had to read whatever books we had around the house or I could borrow from friends.

Now as a certified city-dweller, I have a library two miles from my home. Not only does it have free Wi-Fi, study cubicles and meeting rooms, one can also borrow books, movies, audio books, children's learning kits and more. Plus they host a Friends of the Library used book sale four times a year and, if you happen to miss one, there's a bookcase of remainders with hard cover books a mere $2 and paperbacks for 75 cents. At my library, a teen writing group meets every month and so does a book club for adults. The local master gardeners put on talks quarterly and, if chess is your go-to stress reliever, the second-Sunday afternoon of each month is devoted to you.

I'll admit, since my daughter and I no longer attend the story time events (remind me to tell you about the one time she waited until I was unbuckling her from her car seat in the parking lot to announce she wasn't wearing any underwear) or puppet shows, I don't take advantage of all my library has to offer me. Like indoor plumbing and my dishwasher, it's a luxury I take for granted. But yesterday, I was in need of a book for one of my book clubs and hated to spend the money on a download if I didn't have to. So, I ventured to the library and there the book was, waiting for me to take it home. In fact, I had a choice--paperback or hard cover.

As I was waiting in line with my book (and three to buy from the leftover sale), I almost got teary-eyed watching a young mother and her toddler check out their stash--books and few that came with accessories that had to be contained in important plastic pouches. What memories they are making of spending time together, choosing stories that, no doubt, will mean time snuggled together side-by-side as they explore the imaginations of Seuss and Dahl and Eastman and Peet.

This made me realize that, while my girl has a stash of books that would be the envy of many and a Kindle, too, I need to get her back to the library. Maybe she'd even like to join that teen writing group.

What's waiting for you to discover at your local library?

Raising a Writer

By Pamela

When my children were born, I read to them as soon as their eyes could focus on a page. They devoured their first books—literally! Teething rings had nothing on board book versions of Goodnight, Moon! or The Runaway Bunny.

I was raised a reader, not by example necessarily, but by encouragement. Books were readily available and school librarians were some of my favorite teachers. But I think raising a writer calls for a unique approach.

Having the necessary tools available certainly helps—paper and crayons to start with, advancing to pens and computers later. But learning the structure of a good story is something I wasn’t taught until later in life. In fact, I’ll admit I’m still learning the components of writing fiction, long after I feel I’ve mastered the basics of grammar and spelling.

After I wrote my first manuscript and then took the bold leap of allowing others to read it, I was shocked to learn how much I didn’t know about the elements of story. Point of view issues abounded. “Head-hopping,” Kim wrote frequently in the margins. Joan kept encouraging me to up the conflict. Me? Conflict? I avoid that at all costs in my personal life.

Determined to plant early seeds for my daughter, should she decide one day to be a writer, I’ve started grooming her, so to speak, as she learns to read. (I have two teenage boys who raise an eyebrow if I try to offer a helpful writing tip, so they’re exempt from this experiment.)

As a preschooler, my daughter eagerly accompanied me to toddler time at our local library. The librarian always introduced a book by stating the title, the author and whether it was fiction or nonfiction. When the librarian would ask what nonfiction books were about, a gaggle of toddlers would shout, “Real stuff!”

So, I took her lead and began to use our time at home as an opportunity to do more than just read texts. I began by naming the book, the author and the illustrator. While reading Stellaluna, I might remind my daughter that Janell Cannon also wrote Verdi plus she illustrated her stories. Books became more than just objects on the shelf; they were written by authors, illustrated by artists. We read bios when available and talked about the individuals as though they were friends. Once we even emailed an author and got a personalized response.

While reading, at times I'd pause mid-page and point out literary devises such as alliteration, and I took pride in the fact that, at three years of age, she knew what an onomatopoeia was. (Even though I never remember how it’s spelled!)

Now, as we’ve progressed to chapter books, I’ve upped the ante by introducing point of view. We’re reading a series of books about a horse farm with characters who are growing up and moving on as the series progresses. I stopped in the middle of book five and said, “Who were the first stories mostly about?”

“Ashleigh,” she said.

“Right,” I said. “They were told from Ashleigh’s point of view. We heard what other characters had to say, but we knew only what Ashleigh was thinking. If Charlie was in a scene, we never knew what he was thinking because it was in Ashleigh’s point of view. She could tell us what she thought Charlie might feel because of his actions, but we never knew for sure. Whose point of view is this book in?”

“Samantha?” she asked.

“Yes,” I said. “Ashleigh is still a character, but now we know only what Samantha is thinking or feeling since it’s in her point of view.”

We talked a little about conflict—about what makes a story interesting—how if everything on the horse farm was always good, then the book would get pretty boring. And if Samantha’s horse won every race, then the parts about the track would be predictable and we’d lose interest.

I’m careful to not make reading too much about the craft for fear she’ll view our “snuggle time” as a sly version of home-schooling. But I want her to know there’s more to building a story than just tossing text onto a page, so we also discuss protagonists and antagonists, conflict and resolution. Big words, maybe, but she gets it in the same way she recalls names of dinosaurs and absorbs concepts such as evaporation and pollination.

My goal here is two-fold: I want her to appreciate writers and illustrators—what makes books treasures, plus I’d like her to understand what’s involved in composing a good tale. Maybe someday she’ll become a writer. Or maybe she won’t. If she does, I’m betting her first critique partners won’t have to do quite as much work as mine.

Advance review: Jacquelyn Mitchard's No Time to Wave Goodbye

By Julie

In June, I was thrilled when Jacquelyn Mitchard selected me to be an early reader for No Time to Wave Goodbye, a sequel to The Deep End of the Ocean, Mitchard's bestselling debut novel and Oprah Winfrey's first book club selection, later brought to life on the big screen.

We were also lucky enough to have Jackie stop by What Women Write for an interview with Pamela in July. As promised then, I'm posting an early review of No Time to Wave Goodbye.

I received my copy in July and couldn't wait to jump right in, but decided to revisit Deep End first. It had been nearly 15 years since I read it. I found a copy at my local library and took my time reading, enjoying the second time even more as I explored the story from a writer's perspective.

The level of detail and layering in Deep End is much more noticeable to me now, and the suspense wasn't any less, even knowing how the book ends. I remembered the main plot points, but was surprised at how much my brain (weary from raising three children!) had forgotten. I highly recommend you read it again, too, or read it for the first time.

On the other hand, No Time to Wave Goodbye could probably stand on its own. It's hard for me to say considering my recent re-acquaintance with Beth, Pat, Vincent, Ben/Sam, and Kerry Cappadora.

What I can say, without hesitation, is I was unable to let this new story rest. I couldn't wait to get my hands back on it no matter how I was distracted by the responsibilities of my own life. No Time to Wave Goodbye is a relatively short read, coming in at 240 pages, maybe half the length of Deep End. I've been a slow reader this year, but I polished it off in less than two days after only a few sittings.

Mitchard brings the reader up to speed on the lives of the Cappadoras and various beloved Deep End characters, revisiting their emotional fallout after experiencing the kidnapping and eventual return of a child, while introducing a new supporting cast of other families who lost children through abductions and participated in a documentary filmed by Vincent.

It is especially gratifying to find out how Beth has reinvented her life, how Vincent climbed out of the quagmire that went along with his guilt at losing his younger brother, and how Ben, who still prefers to be called Sam, is also still pulled between the family who lost and found him again and the innocent father created out of his abduction. Mitchard brings the reader along on the Cappadora's continuing journey to make peace with what happened so many years earlier.

If Deep End was suspenseful in a taut, finely drawn way, No Time to Wave Goodbye is a slam to the chest. Once again, Mitchard deals with the subject of child abductions, but this time, pulls the reader alongside the characters in a heart-pounding race against time to save a child. My adrenaline was as elevated as it was last year reading Jackie's most recent release for adults, Still Summer.

I found a twist at the end slightly unsettling, as certain other readers might, but reminded myself that readers and writers bring varied experiences and backgrounds to the table, which affects how we read and write, and Mitchard is no different. This twist, though incidental to the main plot, may bring about some lively discussion for book clubs or other forums, and that isn't a negative thing. It's the rare author who's disappointed when her books create a stir and get readers thinking.

No Time To Wave Goodbye offically goes on sale September 15 and is available for pre-order. That means, if you're so inclined, you have less than a week to get your hands back on Deep End and prepare yourself for another wild ride, compliments of Jackie Mitchard's skillful storytelling.

From the publisher:

New York Times bestselling author Jacquelyn Mitchard captured the heart of a nation with The Deep End of the Ocean, her celebrated debut novel about mother Beth Cappadora, a child kidnapped, a family in crisis.

Now, in No Time to Wave Goodbye, the unforgettable Cappadoras are in peril once again, forced to confront an unimaginable evil.

It has been twenty-two years since Beth Cappadora’s three-year-old son Ben was abducted. By some miracle, he returned nine years later, and the family began to pick up the pieces of their lives. But their peace has always been fragile: Ben returned from the deep end as another child and has never felt entirely at ease with the family he was born into. Now the Cappadora children are grown: Ben is married with a baby girl, Kerry is studying to be an opera singer, and Vincent has emerged from his troubled adolescence as a fledgling filmmaker.

The subject of Vincent’s new documentary, “No Time to Wave Goodbye,” shakes Vincent’s unsuspecting family to the core; it focuses on five families caught in the tortuous web of never knowing the fate of their abducted children. Though Beth tries to stave off the torrent of buried emotions, she is left wondering if she and her family are fated to relive the past forever.
The film earns tremendous acclaim, but just as the Cappadoras are about to celebrate the culmination of Vincent’s artistic success, what Beth fears the most occurs, and the Cappadoras are cast back into the past, revisiting the worst moment of their lives–with only hours to find the truth that can save a life. High in a rugged California mountain range, their rescue becomes a desperate struggle for survival.

No Time to Wave Goodbye is Jacquelyn Mitchard at her best, a spellbinding novel about family loyalty, and love pushed to the limits of endurance.

Just One Book

By Elizabeth

The library makes me greedy. Confronted with thousands—probably hundreds of thousands of choices as my city's vast catalogue can be delivered to my neighborhood branch with the swipe of my card—confronted with unreadable-in-my-lifetime options, I check out tons of books. Books I’ve hankered for; books friends recommend; books with nice covers. Books I doubt I’ll read but will try a few chapters. Books my kids bug me for; books I think my kids ought to read. The sheer abundance makes me greedy, nearly ready to throw my acquisitions on the bed and roll in them like Demi Moore and Woody Harrelson in Indecent Proposal.

And then I hear of people who don’t read. At all. Not just some unfathomable fake person invented by politicians or the media, but actual humans. With no effort I can conjure the names of two I know personally. And again, these aren’t underprivileged people with sad or scary back stories—no, these are both college-educated, middle class women much like me. And yet they don’t read. Now, that’s not strictly true. Both happen to be magazine readers. But reading for enjoyment? Novels? Nope—not interested. Not even once, in one woman’s case. Not one book read for pleasure, ever.

Reading has been perhaps the single most sustaining delectation of my life. I was in the third grade when I dethroned my sister as the family bookworm. I well remember Little Witch by Anna Elizabeth Bennett. I still have a copy of Jennifer, Hecate, Macbeth, William McKinley, and Me, Elizabeth, by E.L. Konigsburg, and all the Little House books. (And if you’re detecting a hint of narcissism in my choices, I might as well admit that Laura Ingalls Wilder’s middle name is Elizabeth.)

There’s been only one exception in my ongoing read-a-thon since then. The year after my very needy son was born, I literally had no time to read, and I missed it horribly. I remember holding my baby and glaring with envy at my husband as he read the newspaper over a bowl of cereal, my hungry eyes denied by my own silly mother guilt. Long nursing sessions should have provided time for dozens of books, but I was derailed by an awkward two-handed technique. (Seriously, don’t ask.)

After that first year, I couldn’t bear the loss. Somehow I found time, even when I had none. I polished off Harry Potter one through four in thirteen days when my son was two and my daughter under a year—the first movie was coming out, I knew I’d want to read the book before I saw it, and then couldn’t put them down. I find my eyes roving for the printed word when I have nothing to do, like an actual physical craving. So far this year I’ve read about fifty books, mostly novels—and it’s been a busy year.

My son became a bookworm in a single day. Mother’s Day, to be exact: 2006. We were at my mom’s house, and she had twenty or so Secrets of Droon books, Tony Abbott’s chapter series. My first grader picked up book one and about ten days later put down the last, and we barely saw the kid’s nose in the interim. From reluctant reader to addict in one afternoon. Because he found the right book.

It’s no secret there’s a fair bit of snobbery about genre fiction. I still puzzle over my husband’s fondness for fantasy and sci fi, and literary readers are stereotyped for rolling their eyes at bodice-rippers. But clearly all these books have passionate fans. Fans who read.

Not everyone is going to love my books. I know that. But I think of my two non-reading friends, and consider one’s interest in fitness, and think she might like my manuscript about kickboxing women. The other is the mother of a young girl, and I wonder if my middle-grade work would be something they could enjoy together. Just one book. One chapter, one day, and the library can morph from another big box to a bottomless treasure chest, the source of a lifetime of delight. And that book, that life-changing tome, might one day spill from the labors of my pen.

That’s not why I write. That’s a much more complicated issue, and not something I’m sure I could even explain. But it’s a really nice by-product to contemplate.

One book, one life. Changed.