The House at Tyneford: A Perfect Novel

by Joan

“Please treat the church and houses with care; we have given up our homes where many of us lived for generations to help win the war to keep men free. We shall return one day and thank you for treating the village kindly.”

So reads the heart-wrenching note pinned to the Tyneford Church door by villagers on Christmas Eve, 1941. In The House at Tyneford, NatashaSolomons has crafted a perfect novel by imagining the stories of a “ghost village” requisitioned by the War Office.

With touches of Downton Abbey and The Guernsey Literary and Potato Peel Society,  The House at Tyneford (Plume/Penguin) is both tragic and hopeful, an intricately woven love story set on the coast of WWII England.

A Jewish nineteen-year-old, Elise lives in a large Viennese apartment amongst maids and furs and music with her mother, a famous singer, and father, a renowned author. As the years preceding the war continue, little by little the maids disappear, the once-grand apartment becomes worn and the family is faced with harsh decisions. Forced to leave for England to work as a house parlour maid while her parents, older sister and husband use the only four visas to America, her father sends her off to keep safe his latest novel, stuffed inside a viola Elise hasn’t played in years.

As an outsider to Tyneford, Elise is alone and haunted by her memories of her parents and sister. On her first night, she sneaks into the back garden where she rinses her face and hair under a water pump. When she meets Christopher Rivers, the head of the manor house, she bumps her head and he brushes away her wet hair from her forehead to see if she’s bleeding.

Later she thinks, “I can’t be certain that the moon was full, but if it wasn’t it ought to have been. Whenever I think back to that night, I see a white lantern of a moon hanging over the stable yard, the wind shivering in the marram grass. As in a dream, I am both the girl in the scene and some other self, watching her. I see Mr. Rivers sliding back the girl’s hair, and I feel the warmth of his fingers on my forehead. I watch that other Elise cross the yard and slip into the dark house.”

Elise’s long hair is “undignified and unsightly in a dining room,” says the head of staff and butler, and she is forced to cut off her long braid. With it goes a little more of her pride. Over the next few days, as she learns English and the exhausting duties that painfully stretch in front of her, Mr. Rivers shares his collection of her father’s novels, much to the chagrin of the other household staff. Finding spare free time, she steals away to the beach where she unleashes into the wind a tirade of newly learned profanity. It is then she meets the handsome, disheveled Kit, Christopher Rivers’ son returning from Cambridge. Soon they become friends, sharing a passion for literature and frivolity.

Elise learns this manor house is not like others, the normal rules seem to bend and twist as the war comes closer to England. She is swept away by her love of Kit, but soon he must leave to join the fight.

With Natasha Solomons’ exquisite prose, we are transported to the aging manor house, the windswept seaside and a bombed countryside. She has created an intelligent, heartbreaking plot with well-drawn characters fighting for hope in the midst of a country in despair.

To me, the novel hidden in the viola serves not only as a reminder of her father, but also represents the elusive, unreachable reunion with her family. I finished through a cloud of bittersweet tears and ached to read more, wanting to read from the start once more, knowing I would never again read with surprise those last magical pages.

I’m fascinated with WWII-era dramas and The House at Tyneford is about as perfect as they come. I am now reading Mr. Rosenblum Dreams in English, Solomons’ first novel, and eagerly await her next, which I understand she is finishing as I write this… 

You can order The House at Tyneford from an Indie bookstore or the Read Pink version is now available for order at Amazon and Barnes and Noble.

A Review of Kathleen Grissom’s The Kitchen House

By Kim

Synopsis (from the book jacket):

Orphaned during her passage from Ireland, young, white Lavinia arrives on the steps of the kitchen house and is placed, as an indentured servant, under the care of Belle, the master’s illegitimate slave daughter. Lavinia learns to cook, clean, and serve food, while guided by the quiet strength and love of her new family.

In time, Lavinia is accepted into the world of the big house, caring for the master’s opium-addicted wife and befriending his dangerous yet protective son. She attempts to straddle the worlds of the kitchen and big house, but her skin color will forever set her apart from Belle and the other slaves.

Through the unique eyes of Lavinia and Belle, Kathleen Grissom’s debut novel unfolds in a heartbreaking and ultimately hopeful story of class, race, dignity, deep-buried secrets, and familial bonds.

About Kathleen Grissom (from Simon & Schuster’s website):

Kathleen Grissom was born and raised in Saskatchewan, Canada, and is now happily rooted in south-side Virginia, where she and her husband live in the plantation tavern they renovated. The Kitchen House is her first novel.

Review:

I happened upon this novel at a bookstore a few weeks ago and bought it based on nothing but the quote on the cover where Alice Walker said, “This novel, like The Help, does important work.”

We live in a time where preconceived notions of race and family are blurred. Though The Kitchen House is set two centuries in the past, Grissom shows characters struggling with the very same issues. Lavinia is white, yet, for all intents and purposes, a slave. Belle is the illegitimate daughter of the master, seemingly his favorite child, yet her skin color bars her from being accepted in the big house, much less in society. Both young women are trapped between two worlds into which they can never fully fit. Both are raised by families that aren’t their own and from whom they are forced to separate. Both are victims of the same shattered man. I desperately wanted to hate that man, but Grissom gave me just enough insight into his childhood to keep one sliver of my sympathy alive.

The prose is gorgeous, the characters complex, and the story engrossing. It does, as Alice Walker said, “important work.”

Have you read The Kitchen House? I’d love to hear your thoughts.

Guest post: Sophie Perinot, author of The Sister Queens

By Julie

Today, we welcome Sophie Perinot to What Women Write. I've known Sophie for nearly a year as we've both participated in Book Pregnant, a group of authors debuting in 2012 and 2013. Sophie writes historical fiction and her first novel, The Sister Queens, released six months ago. We're helping Sophie celebrate her book baby's half-year birthday! 

I am currently engrossed in The Sister Queens, which conveniently floated to the top of my to-be-read pile just in time! I'm generally not a huge reader of straight historical fiction these days—it seems I'm always busy trying to keep up with books releasing in my own genre.

HOWEVER … I've found The Sister Queens so far to be a compulsively and delightfully readable book. Sophie has created such an accessible story of her young queens, born sisters, then separated not only by marriage and distance, but by battles between their rival husbands and intrigue at their courts while they delicately attempt to balance their love for each other with ambition for their husbands and loyalty to their kingdoms. It's also fascinating to read of the critical responsibility each queen has to produce heirs. Necessarily, sex is a part of this story. I was, thus, both amused and not surprised to open the email from Sophie containing her guest post and see her file name, which wasn't the whole title. I grinned and thought, Where is she going with this? And then I found myself nodding along as I read what she had to say. I think you will, too.

Judging men by the size of their … 

Paychecks 

By Sophie Perinot

Military victories and territorial holdings remain history’s measure of male success. Should they be the only ones?

Back in college I took a number “women’s studies” courses. At some juncture I dissected a stack of advertisements, horrified by how they objectified women and by the messages sent, often none too subtly, that a woman’s value was largely dependent on her physical attractiveness. My professor pointed out that society had an equally unfair rubric for judging men—“Men,” she said, “judge themselves and each other by the size of their paychecks and their (insert other p-word here).” Decades later, while researching my debut novel, this professorial quip came back to me as I tried to sort out the facts and my feelings about two medieval kings.

My novel The Sister Queens tells the story of Marguerite and Eleanor of Provence—13^th century sisters who became the queens of France and England respectively. In doing so, it necessarily involves the lives of their husbands, Louis IX of France (Saint Louis) and Henry III of England. History has come to very clear conclusions about these sovereigns—Louis was a success and Henry was a failure. But in the process of writing my book I became more and more frustrated by the common perceptions of each man, and I started to believe that how we are accustomed to viewing them has as much to do with what matters in “H”istory as it does with who they were.

Traditional political and military history celebrates men who are effective rulers. The personal aspects of those men’s lives are either ignored or attached little value. I, however, came to writing with a background in women’s and social history. Those fields have a different view of what is important. I also came to my story as a woman or rather—since I was writing alternate first person present tense viewpoints—two women. The opportunity to look at each king through his wife’s eyes raised a pair of questions that (given that, generally, women now choose their own husbands) are even more relevant today than they were 700 years ago:

1. Should the definition of “successful man” include competence as a husband, father and friend?
2. Is it better to be married to a traditionally “successful man” who has little time for his family or to a good and loving man who is an epic failure?

As I got to know Louis of France and Henry of England intimately, my personal answer to the “Louis or Henry, who would I marry” question became clear.

Louis IX of France is, in my opinion, the historical equivalent of the executive with a seven-figure salary who can’t remember his kids’ names and sends his assistant to buy his wife an anniversary gift.  

Yes, I know he is considered one of his country’s greatest monarchs. Heck, more than this, based on his piety and his participation in the crusades, he is a Roman Catholic Saint. That last bit made me suspicious from the get-go. I mean, when you hear “saint” do you think “damn, I’d like to live with him”? Me either. A single fact associated with his canonization process confirmed my hunch and offered breathtaking insight into what it must have been like for Marguerite as Louis’s wife. Hearings on Louis’s candidacy began shortly after his death at the instigation of his family. Only one person close to Louis declined to testify before the committee of prelates gathered at St. Denis—his queen. I’d say that’s a sign of underlying resentment if ever there was one. Even when pressed by her son, the King of France, Marguerite of Provence wouldn’t yield. Was she just being petty? I don’t think so.

Having walked in Marguerite’s shoes while writing my novel, and seen Louis’s neglect of her time and time again, it seems to me that she had good reason for her refusal. Louis may have reformed French government and behaved with compassion and justice to his people, but he was a poor husband and an uninvolved father. Dismissive of Marguerite’s advice to the end, he ignored her pleas to forgo a return to the Holy Land, tromping off on a second crusade—a journey which cost long-suffering Marguerite not only a husband, but the lives of two of her children. Through Marguerite’s eyes Louis was NO saint.

Henry III of England is a 13^th century example of a nice guy in over his head—you know, the one who inherits the family business and proceeds to run it into the ground because all he really wants is to be an artist.  

History does not remember Henry III of England kindly. Considered naïve and unsuited to leadership at best (and downright simple at worst). he is ranked one of the least among English Kings. There is no denying that Henry was not an able monarch. There were times during my research and writing when I found myself ardently wishing Henry had been an architect (he had a passion for architecture and a fine aesthetic eye) rather than a king. He might even have made a go of it as a lesser nobleman on an estate in the middle of nowhere. 

But king . . . the man was doomed. If he had a real talent, beyond his artistic taste, it was as a husband and father. In those roles, he excelled and the historical record is replete with evidence of it. In thirty-six years no hint of scandal ever touched his marriage to Eleanor of Provence. Again and again, he exhibited a deep caring for both his wife and their children. Henry became sick with grief nearly to the point of death when his youngest child, Katherine, who was physically handicapped and likely developmentally handicapped as well, died at age three. He continued to worry about his children’s wellbeing even once they reached adulthood, intervening repeatedly in his daughter the Queen of Scotland’s marriage. And, given the opportunity, he showed the ultimate faith and trust in his wife, making her regent of England in his absence. Eleanor saw all this—lived it. How frustrating it must have been for her to watch the man she loved, and who loved her in return, shoot himself in the professional foot again and again. Yet we know Eleanor grieved at Henry’s death.

So, back to those two pesky questions. Given that I live in a city that worships power (Washington, DC), my answers might surprise you. Unless you are a fellow married woman, and then I bet you’ll say “Duh.”

1. I believe a man cannot be called successful who is not as capable in his personal life as in his professional life.
2. I’d hate to live, day in, day out, with a man who had no time for me and failed to treat me as a valuable partner.

So, given my choice of royal husbands, I’d take Henry, failures and all. Louis wins the “paycheck” test, hands down. He is history’s idea of a “great man.” But I can think of a number of “Louis-like” men among my acquaintances, and I am thankful every day that I am not married to them. In the end, for this writer, the size of a husband’s heart matters more than his professional competence . . . or the size of anything that begins with a “p” for that matter.

Thank you, Sophie, for being our guest today! The Sister Queens is available both online and wherever books are sold. Try Amazon or Barnes and Noble or your local independent bookseller. 

About The Sister Queens
Like most sisters, Marguerite and Eleanor were rivals.  They were also queens. 

Raised at the court of their father, Raymond Berenger, Count of Provence, Marguerite and Eleanor are separated by royal marriages--but never truly parted. 

Patient, perfect, and used to being first, Marguerite becomes Queen of France. But Louis IX is a religious zealot who denies himself the love and companionship his wife craves. Can she borrow enough of her sister's boldness to grasp her chance for happiness in a forbidden love?

Passionate, strong-willed, and stubborn, Eleanor becomes Queen of England. Henry III is a good man, but not a good king. Can Eleanor stop competing with her sister and value what she has, or will she let it slip away? 

The Sister Queens is historical fiction at its most compelling, and is an unforgettable first novel.

About Sophie Perinot

Sophie Perinot received her BA in History from the College of Wooster and her law degree from Northwestern University. She is an active member of the Historical Novel Society and lives in Virginia.

Ladies and gentlemen, today's Top Ten

By Pamela

Top ten signs your novel is taking you too long to complete …

10. You contemplate killing off a once-beloved character because you’re just so darn sick of him.

9. Your friends and family have gone from asking “When’s your book going to be finished?” to “Are you ever going to finish that book?” to not caring enough to even ask anymore.

8. Your ass is three times wider and flatter today than it was when you wrote: Chapter One.

7. Your completion goal was once ‘before I turn 40’ and is now ‘before I die.’

6. You change the word “reached” to “grabbed” to “grasped” to “yanked” back to “reached” again before finally just deleting the sentence altogether.

5. You clean out an old handbag/coat pocket/desk drawer you haven’t carried/worn/opened in a couple years and discover a scrap of paper with a brilliant quote scribbled on it that one of your characters should say, only to find a) it’s not brilliant and b) you have no idea who should say it.

4. You’ve changed the date of your ‘present day’ section three times already.

3. You find a list of your top ten agents you should query when you’re finished and realize half of them have either changed agencies, changed industries or died.

2. Every time you save your document a message pops up asking you if you’d like to save this slow, antiquated document to a flashier, faster, way-cooler version of Word.

1. When you started, you dreamed of being the next JK Rowling. Then you dreamed of being the next Stephenie Meyers. Today you dream of being the next you because, after all this time trying to join the ranks of successful, published women writers, you’ve matured and grown and realize that emulating someone else is exhausting and self-depreciating and impractical. And so you keep writing as you.

Writing Through Writer's Block

By Susan

I’ve always been pretty consistent with my writings… from journal entries to this blog, to working on my novel. If I don’t write new words every day, something’s wrong.

Yet over the past few months something changed. Blame it on summer. Blame it on my own weariness with my novel. Was this writer's block? I wasn't sure, but I certainly wasn’t writing. I’d been in a restless place with the editing of my manuscript, and editing didn't feel like writing at all. I felt stagnant and stuck, unable to put new words on paper--because I’d been too busy worrying about the novel instead of writing one. (Worrying about writing isn’t the same as writing. Trust me on this.)

Then I spent a week cradled by mountains at the Appalachian Writers’ Workshop. I got to listen to what other people do with their pens--poets spinning words into golden threads, essayists painting a new perspective on life’s simplest tasks. I listened to the words of people who are just as crazy about writing as I am as they spoke the truth, even when it hurt. And I came back to Texas inspired. It was a great reminder of why I write.

Since my return, I have challenged myself with different prompts to stretch my words to new places.

I started by writing poetry and short essays on nature. I wrote a creation myth that might find its way into my next novel. I played around with the idea of writing down children's stories--the tales I used to tuck in my daughters with when they were small. None of it has had anything to do with the manuscript I am currently editing. Not one word has felt like worry about what I've already written… and it felt like freedom.

And then I figured it out: all of a sudden, I’m only writing for me again. I’m not thinking about my agent, or editor. I’m not thinking about a book deal and what that even might mean. I’m just putting new words on paper because that’s what I do. And it’s felt great.

I suppose this means that I've been writing through my writer's block. I can’t think of any other way to do it. I’m showing up every day, hoping to capture a muse or a glimpse of genius. And of course, some days are better than others. But the worry has gone away. The dread of editing has lifted. It’s all a process, of course, this ebb and flow of a writing life. But it’s been a great reminder—it’s only a writing life if I am writing. Every day.

First One for the first lady

by Elizabeth

Julie, as you probably know, has her first book coming out in just a few months. There's plenty to get through before that, though. We've got the first report cards of the year, Julie's and Pamela's second kids coming home for their first Thanksgivings as college students; maybe my son will find his first girlfriend (ouch). Oh, and the election.

By the time Calling Me Home hits the shelves, the Obamas will have settled in for their final four years at 1600 Pennsylvania Avenue, or the Romneys will have just finished stowing their suitcases in the White House attics. Either way, an intelligent woman will hold the very unofficial title of first lady (nope, no caps; I learned that in my journalism days), and here's what is fun for Julie, and for all of us--she might read our book. And if she does, and she loves it, she might mention it! In a magazine article, during an interview, maybe on CNN. Can you imagine?

I can. A book I queried (alas, to no avail) had another first lady as a secondary character, and you bet my thoughts spiraled east as I sent off letters to agents. "How cool would it be...?" I thought. When I queried my first book (alas, to no avail), Laura Bush was the woman running the Residence. A librarian. Obviously a reader.

I'm not even talking politics here. (Heavens no!) I'm talking about the magical idea that on a cold Washington night, Julie's book or my book or your book might be waiting on the nightstand of whichever bedroom the President and his wife select or re-select (told you I'm not talking politics), to be scooped up with a sigh and pages turned as snow tumbles from the sky. I'm talking about the thought of her loving it so much she is moved to add Julie's name or my name or your name to the invite list for the next State dinner. I'm talking about the idea that the hours and hours spent picking over words, spent agonizing over the query and the rewrites and the notes and all of it, could eventually land Julie or me or you in one of the 120 seats in the State Dining Room. Heady stuff.

And don't get me started on what could happen across the pond if a Duchess or a Queen happens to love our words. Can you imagine?

The Long and Sometimes Rocky Journey

by Joan 

Last week I climbed a mountain, came face-to-face with a mountain goat, stood in four states at once and looked for non-tattooed bodies on Laguna Beach.  

At the end of a too-brief summer, after our son returned to the empty nest and juggled friends, an internship and his guitar, we set off at midnight on a cross-country trek to deliver him and his car to a sophomore year in California. For a week on the road, we enjoyed a last bit of family time, a bittersweet step closer to his future.

New Mexico, photo by Rick Mora

He shared the driving, his play list and fears of the upcoming semester. My husband and he discussed photography, the stock market and music. With me it was literature and life and the art of capturing an extraordinary cloud. 

As we drove, formations erupted like galactic sandcastles across the New Mexico desert. Scenes appeared before us, shocking and stunningly beautiful.

Zion National Park, photo by Rick Mora

In Zion National Park, a goat greeted us, flaunting her ridged horns. We hiked two miles to see emerald pools, climbing over hunks of shucked-off sandstone and dodging lizards and over-fed squirrels. For someone who’s not in great physical shape, there were times I wanted to give up. But I put one tired foot in front of the other and climbed.

Mountain goat at Zion National Park, photo by Rick Mora

The guys laughed at me when I stood on the four-corners’ landmark and dropped to a pushup position to straddle Utah, New Mexico, Colorado and Arizona, but I didn’t care. Sometimes life calls for silly.

Four Corners Monument, photo by Rick Mora

Laguna Beach, photo by Rick Mora

On the last relaxing few days, I went from sand to ocean and back again, and wondered when we became a society of inked bodies. Are tattoos a fad, like bellbottoms and blue eye shadow?

Over the course of a week, I went up, down and sideways. Writing my current manuscript over the past three (or was it four?) years has taken me on a similarly winding journey. There were rocky trails and tricky dips, times I felt I might never reach the top. Some chapters flowed out of me, smoothly, like my steps across a level path. I had rare moments of clarity when the words flowed to the page as imagined.

During my many revision sessions, I stumbled upon creature-like scenes that worked so well in my mind, but stared me down, daring me to come closer and threatening to run away if I flinched. I scanned painted-on adjectives, cleaning until I was left with untarnished words. I straddled the stories of my four main characters, trying to link them forever by the beams of a stone church. Finishing it left me exhilarated, exhausted, bittersweet and hopeful for its future.

Dropping our son at his off-campus apartment was no less heartbreaking than leaving him for his freshman year. But our stories are linked by a journey through life, and no amount of distance can break that.