Summer Reading

(which truth to tell is not that different from my winter, spring or autumn reading)

Several of the British literary magazines I subscribe to do these features where notable authors and others talk about what they’re going to read during the summer. What I have in mind to read at any given time changes so often that any list I prepared at the beginning of summer would be a piece of short fiction, but good luck to the person I read about who was planning to read a three volume biography of Napoleon in French.

The books below are listed in the order I read them. Books I discussed earlier on the blog are not here. If I wrote about them I liked them.

Disclaimer by Rene Knight. A woman picks up a book and realizes that it describes incidents in her life. It’s difficult to discuss this book without revealing key plot details. Suffice it to say the author of the book is not a friend.

Life After Life by by Kate Atkinson. Every time Ursula Todd dies, she is born again. She drowns, she falls off a roof. When she dies in the London Blitz she appears again as the wife of a Nazi officer who hangs out with Eva Braun. This is very cleverly done. Don’t be put off by its description as “postmodern,” it’s a page turner.

On His Own Terms: A Life of Nelson Rockefeller by Richard Norton Smith. If I had not followed politics during my childhood and seen a lot of Nelson Rockefeller I would find it unbelievable that the man described here was a Republican (FDR and Harry Truman urged him to switch party affiliation). There was no realistic chance that he would ever be the Republican nominee for the presidency and his marriage to Happy Murphy and the rise of the right wing of the party certainly doomed him in 1964. He was a fascinating man and you get a real sense of how the Republican party and the role of government has changed in the past 50 years.

The Speechwriter: A Brief Education in Politics by Barton Swaim. Mr. Swaim admired Mark Sanford and offered his services as a speechwriter. I kept thinking it was a pity he didn’t read Never Work for a Jerk. This is short book that is as much about enduring a job you hate as it is about politics. Mr. Swaim is a good writer. It’s a pity Mark Sanford didn’t understand that.

A Royal Experiment: The Private Life of George III by Janice Hadlow. An entertaining look at what many consider the first modern royal family. George III was more than just the bete noir of the American colonies. This book teaches you that being royal, especially if you’re a woman, is quite tedious. This account is enlivened by contemporary diaries and letters.

In a Dark, Dark Wood by Ruth Ware. This is a contemporary country house murder complete with snow storm, non-functioning landline and cell phones that won’t work in the middle of nowhere. Nora gets an invitation to a “hen party” (bachelorette party) for her best friend, Claire. However, she and Claire have not seen each other for ten years and Nora is not invited to the wedding. The questions: Who invited her and why?

The Dive from Clausen’s Pier by Ann Packer. On a Memorial Day weekend Carrie and Michael, who are engaged to be married, drive out to Clausen’s Pier for a picnic. Michael is paralyzed after diving into shallow water. Burdened by guilt and the expectations of others, Carrie drives to New York City and a new life. Eventually, Carrie has to decide where she will be happiest. I understand that readers, frustrated by her decision, have hurled the book across the room. My Kindle is pricy so I didn’t go that far.

Erasure by Percival Everett. Thelonious “Monk” Ellison is an African-American author of experimental novels. He gives talks on the theory of the novel at academic conferences.

When the family from whom he is estranged unravels, he realizes he needs to make some money so he writes “a ghetto novel” like those sometimes favored by talk show hosts. This is satire with humanity and a novel within a novel.

In the last weeks of the summer I saw the documentary “Best of Enemies” about the Buckley/Vidal skirmish during the 1968 Democratic and Republican conventions. This inspired me to do a little reading about the 1960s. I started with Buckley and Mailer: The Difficult Friendship that Shaped the 1960s by Kevin M. Schultz. Though I think the subtitle overstates the importance of the relationship, it is interesting to see two such combative people try to understand each other. Then I tried Dylan Goes Electric! Newport, Pete Seeger, Dylan and the Night That Split the 60s. I learned a lot reading this book. I knew far more about Dylan than I knew about Seeger. The problem with the book is that it never made me want to listen to the music and in a book like this that’s a major flaw. Finally, I moved on to Before the Storm: Barry Goldwater and the Unmaking of the American Consensus by Rick Perlstein, the first volume of a trilogy, is fascinating if deeply dispiriting. The book was a bit too detailed in spots for me. I didn’t really need to know all the factional fighting within the Young Americans for Freedom but I was otherwise riveted. The message? All those people who thought LBJ’s landslide crushed the right wing of the Republican party were wrong. The right is very patient. Barry Goldwater was the wrong messenger, but Ronald Reagan, as befits an actor, was waiting in the wings.

© 2015 Stephanie Patterson

The Dear Old Days of Scholastic Book Club

Because my father was in the military and then had trouble adjusting to civilian life, I attended 10 schools in 12 years. I was the new kid more often than I liked. There were two things that got me through all the moving: English teachers and the Scholastic Book Club.

I liked English teachers and they liked me. Many were willing to loan me books other than the ones that were assigned and none of them thought it was weird that I was so enamored of literature. Each of those English teachers participated in the Scholastic Book Club.

For those of you who may have not known the joys of SBC, let me enumerate them. One day you would walk into class and you would receive a newspaper that was filled with books that could be bought very cheaply. I remember buying Carol and On Your Toes, Susie. But I bought many more books than that. I don’t remember my parents ever telling me I couldn’t have books. I would look at the newspaper again and again and debate what the best selections might be. There would be a deadline for handing in choices and money but I never dawdled.

Then there was the toe-curling day that the books actually arrived. When I was in the ninth grade, my English teacher was a proud member of the DAR (Daughters of the American Revolution) who had a wonderfully Dickensian name that I’m dying to share, but probably should not. Let’s just call her Mrs. Dickens (with apologies to poor Catherine Hogarth).

Scholastic Book Club days were usually also Reader’s Digest days. We would read selections from The Reader’s Digest and Mrs. Dickens would unpack the boxes of books. I had a very difficult time looking anywhere but at those boxes. How could “Humor in Uniform” possibly compete with the worlds and words contained in all those books?

Mrs. Dickens seemed to have a terrible time getting the orders together and she kept talking about her favorite bits in Reader’s Digest. I became very concerned that class would end and I would have to wait until the next day to get my books. When the bell rang, I thought I would cry. When I checked out the faces of my classmates I saw several people who looked hideously disappointed.

I didn’t enjoy the rest of my day and was determined to get my books before I left school. When the last bell rang, I made my way back to the Dickens classroom. She was still there fussing over the book orders.

“Could I have my books, please?” I was determined to be polite even though I wanted to take ALL the books and flee.

She looked at me and sighed but I was used to that.

She put my order together and handed me the books. I felt an enormous sense of relief and elation.

“I can’t wait to read these this summer!”

“This summer? This summer?“ she cried. “Why do you need them NOOOOW?”

Some people just don’t understand.

Stephanie Patterson

Steph’s Knee: The Final Frontier.

When I had my first orthopedic surgery in 1973, I was a mere twenty-one and, having been raised as a Christian Scientist, I knew next to nothing about medical matters. My idea of surgery was this. You went to sleep, doctors did their stuff and you woke up fresh as a daisy.

I was a college senior and I needed to finish up course work. I knew I would be in the hospital for a couple of weeks so I thought I could get some serious reading done. I brought the following books to the hospital: Paradise Lost, The Magic Mountain, Moby Dick and Selected Plays of Eugene O’Neill. You’ll recall that Hughie and A Moon for the Misbegotten are not laugh riots. My serious reading led to my being moved from a hospital ward to a private room. However, I didn’t read any of those books. The hospital was noisy. I was in pain. I’ve never quite acquired the knack of reading in bed.

My latest orthopedic surgery was about a month ago when I had a total left knee replacement. I spent a few days in the hospital (a social worker called to discuss my discharge plan a week before I was hospitalized) and two weeks in a very good rehab facility. But I’ve now had many orthopedic surgeries since my first and I’ve learned that Milton and morphia don’t mix.

Yes, I could spend my pre-op time worrying about surgical outcomes and how painful physical therapy might be (It smarts considerable) but it’s much more fun to obsess about what I might read. I don’t bring electronic devices to hospitals so I ditched my Kindle and went through my stock of mass market paperbacks. I put a whole pile of paperbacks where Bob could reach them. If one book didn’t work out he could bring another.

First, I tried a Maeve Binchy. I loved Light a Penny Candle and Echoes. I brought Whitethorn Woods with me to the hospital. Alas, after many attempts to lose myself in another world, I gave up. The lady next door to me who was attempting to smoke while she was on oxygen was much more interesting.

When I transferred to the rehab facility Bob brought a different set of books. I quickly seized on The Woman in White, one of my favorite novels. Surely, I could read this. How could I not be beguiled by multiple narrators and improbable plot twists? I made it through a couple chapters but went quickly to sleep.

I was well aware that the pain medication was interfering with my ability to read. I tripled my coffee intake. Normally if I want to get to sleep I can’t have coffee after about two in the afternoon. During my rehab stay I was drinking it at dinner time. Bob doesn’t like to see me bouncing off the walls in the evening. Luckily my hospital roommate thought me “bubbly and fun.”

Finally, I had some success. Dimly lit by caffeine, I picked up Christianna Brand’s
Suddenly in His Sleep. I’ve always liked Brand and this was a good old country mansion with eccentric family members who hate each other tale. I always feel vaguely at sea when I’m not reading a book so even though I was reading paragraphs rather than pages at a time, I was happy.

The nurse who was assigned to me in the evenings said to me, “Oh, I came in last night and you were sound asleep. I had to turn off the light and take off your glasses. I didn’t touch your book. I didn’t want to lose your place.”

That’s my kind of caregiver.

© 2014 Stephanie Patterson

The Lady Who Taught Me to Read

On the night table: Ten Second Staircase (Christopher Fowler)



I’m going to be unabashedly sentimental today. You are warned. 

Now, THIS is a reader's Christmas tree.
Courtesy Meredith Cole

I began learning to read when I was barely 4, which was unusual when I was a kid. When my sister, Barbara, went to kindergarten, she decided to take me with her. Just like that. Don't try to get between my sister and what she's set her mind to do.

She sat me next to her, and helped me with the exercises. She made sure I got a sticker star the same as she did, even when my attempts at printing letters were, well, free-form. At home, she would play teacher and read from her Dick & Jane reader, pointing out the words to me as she went. When I got sick, she'd sit by my bed and read to me. When she got sick, she’d listen to me while I sat with a book in my lap and made up stories because I couldn’t yet read all the words. But I knew there were stories in there, stories better than I was making up, because she'd read them to me. I knew they were there.  I wanted to be able to read them. 

Being able to read well got me through grade school, even though — with my dad in the army — we moved around a lot.

Barbara got me through high school. I firmly believe that. I became almost pathologically shy and found constant excuses to stay home. I never read the literature assignments. While the rest of the class was reading Wuthering Heights or Silas Marner, and I was supposed to be doing the same, I read Mary Stewart, John Steinbeck and Daphne du Maurier. (I was/am also certifiably stubborn.) Because the reading lists never changed year to year, Barbara could — and did — coach me for the tests. 

She loves grammar, and she taught it to me. She enjoyed diagramming sentences. Predicate nouns, adverbial clauses, genitive case, she taught them to me. She remembers that I wrote papers for her. I recall that I'd give her a couple of ideas, maybe an opening sentence. Meanwhile, I only passed English because of her. I was too busy reading books that weren't on the reading lists.

In a way, she’s responsible for my being published. An editor at McGraw-Hill was looking for someone to proofread an English-as-a-second-language project, to make sure there were no mistakes in the lessons.  She knew my sister through their church, and knew she was a grammar nut — uh, expert — and meticulous. Barbara was too busy at the time, running a theater company in New York City, and suggested Louise contact me, because she said I was almost as big an — uh — expert as her. I'd been laid off from my radio DJ job and had realized that, at my age, if I were going to stay in  New York, I'd have to find another line of work. I did. From McGraw-Hill, I went to another job, full time, as a copyeditor, then an editor, and that is where I met a woman who introduced me to my first agent. So, there you go.

Barbara is a drama teacher. She lives in what I consider my hometown, Clarksville, Tennessee, where my family settled when my father retired from the army when I was 12. I lived there till I finished college.

My sister and brother-in-law, David (yes, we both married Davids), returned to Clarksville in the mid-1990s from New York City. They went back to care for my parents. My father had advanced Parkinson’s and my mom was trying to care for him on her own. 

When my father died, in 1996, they stayed on, to be with her. They made new lives for themselves. She as a teacher, he as a minister. Gradually my mother developed dementia, but was able to live on her own in her own house. Because of them.

So today, I’d like to say thank you to my brother-in-law. And especially to my sister.

The lady who taught me to read.

Photo credit: Shane Martin

Sheila York
Copyright 2013

The Common Reader

Over the years writers have heard and read about the importance of reaching that phantom held fast in the minds of publishers, agents and booksellers: the average reader. You know the guy (I always think of the average reader as male though statistics suggest otherwise). He needs to be captured by the first sentence and must be propelled effortlessly through a compelling narrative. The writer must not linger too long over any detail as the average reader has many bids on his attention and needs to get on with it.

I never imagined that such a person existed. If such a person did exist, I thought, I certainly wouldn’t want to be in his company.

Reader, I married him.

An exchange about a book marked our first date.

“Have you read Julian Jaynes?” Bob asked.

“Do you mean The Origin of Consciousness in the Breakdown of the Bicameral Mind?”

The rest is domestic history.

But our discovery of each other’s literary tastes was not all skittles and beer. Early in our marriage I presented Bob with a mystery I had enjoyed very much, Robert Goddard’s Into the Blue. A while later, I found Bob reading. I don’t remember what it was but it wasn’t the Goddard.

“You didn’t like it?”

“Two pages of introspection and not a thing happened.”

I felt a cold chill. Could I have married a man who didn’t like mysteries?

I continued to buy the books I liked (my library is vast) and I watched what Bob picked out. I discovered that my husband is a great re-reader and he goes over favorite passages in a way I do not.

His favorites?

Dick Francis. Bob likes the way every word seems to serve to drive the plot forward. I’m tempted to say something here about galloping to the end but am resisting. Above all Francis does not blather. Mr. Francis was also a great favorite of Robin Hathaway’s and Bob and Robin enjoyed discussing their favorites. (Robin’s was Nerve; Bob has not committed to a favorite.)

Georges Simenon (the Maigret novels). Bob notes that Maigret is smart about people and focuses attention on those whose lives have largely been failures. He eschews forensics and relies on conversation. I like the fact that Maigret’s job allows him to spend a lot of time dropping into bars and drinking Calvados. Simenon does not blather.

Carl Hiaasen. You get a good mystery and serious issues are raised, but you’re laughing so hard you may not notice. Hiaasen’s madcap plots tend to blend together for me, but Bob actually remembers in which novel a particular plot twist or bit of business occurred. Hiaasen does not blather.

Elizabeth Peters (the Amelia Peabody mysteries). Bob once worked as an archaeologist and he admires Peters’ knowledge of Egypt and archaeological practices. He also enjoys her humor. I used to come home from mystery conferences with books set in the ancient world and Bob would say, “You get me these things, but they don’t really grab me.” I’ve pointed out to Bob that Peters, while she does not blather, is a touch more discursive than his usual favorites.

“Well, everybody goes on about something; you just have to like what they go on about.”

As I type, Bob is reading The Fifth Woman by Henning Mankell. This is most uncharacteristic as Bob is not much for Scandanavian brooding. “I do tolerate a lot in the Wallander novels that I wouldn’t normally put up with in other books,” he says.

So, what lessons should you draw from all of this?

They’re isn’t an average reader no matter what publishers, agents and booksellers imagine. But don’t blather unless you’re very funny or Swedish.

© 2013 Stephanie Patterson

What to Read (or not) While Writing

Recently I was writing away at a nice clip. The book was going well. I was turning out chapters at a good pace. Suddenly, one morning, I realized I had slowed down; instead of scampering across the page I felt as if I were slogging through deep mud. My sentences were long and contorted. The right words were escaping me. I had to grope for them, and often consult a Thesaurus. What was wrong?

That night I picked up my bedtime reading, Wings of a Dove, by Henry James, and had my answer. Subconsciously I’d been trying to imitate James all day. Not only had I failed to equal James, I’d lost touch with my own voice. I remembered another time, long ago, as I was writing a Dr. Fenimore mystery, suddenly the doctor began to sound like Sam Spade. Why? I’d been reading The Big Sleep, by Dashiell Hammett.

I’m not alone with this affliction. A writer-friend, Stephanie Patterson, was working on a novel and had the same problem. She was writing along at a merry pace until one day she slowed down to a crawl. The cause? Villette, by Charlotte Bronte – a wonderful novel, but not Stephanie’s natural style. She put it aside and all was well once more.

You can’t be too careful what you read while writing. To be on the safe side, stick to non-fiction – articles and light essays, or even poetry. Otherwise your mystery may turn into a poor imitation of Swann’s Way or The Brothers Karamazov.

Robin Hathaway

MWA-NY Election 2012 . . . and the Winner Is — Patricia King — President!

Madame President, congratulations on your election as 2012 President of the Mystery Writers of America, New York Chapter. This chapter includes a wide geographic area – New York, New Jersey, Connecticut, Pennsylvania, Delaware and West Virginia. Currently, it has about 635 members with a national membership of about 3,000 members. You are now in a line with some of the world's most distinguished writers of mystery/crime fiction.

Q: What are some of your plans for MWA-NY for the coming year?

PK: My approach is always more toward evolution than revolution. And participative. The club provided me with moral support and information that helped me succeed. I want to foster an inclusive atmosphere that will do the same for all of our chapter's members, wherever in our broad territory they reside.

Q: You write under the name of Annamaria Alfieri. Do you prefer to be called Patricia or Annamaria? How does your Italian heritage influence your crime writing?

PK: I prefer Patricia in my ordinary dealings and Annamaria for author presentations. I chose to have a pseudonym for my fiction because Patricia King is such a common name and I didn't want to be confused with others when it came to my novels. My heritage strongly influences my everyday life. Ethnic identity tends to be very intense among Italian Americans, and I grew up with the values of the Italian culture: unbreakable family ties, duty, aesthetic sensitivity. But since my novels are set in South America, the Italian in me comes out in, I think, less obvious ways. Being Italian, I was raised a Catholic and went to Catholic school, so I am prepared to understand pretty well the influence of the Catholic Church in Latin America. I think the family relationships in my stories must be more Italian than anything else, since that is built into my bloodstream. I hope I also have an Italian sense of romance. There are a lot of love relationships in my stories.

I have always loved reading mysteries, but I have to confess that I first joined MWA because a novelist friend advised me to hang around with other novelists and told me MWA-NY was the most convivial group of fiction authors in NYC. He sure was right about that!

Q: You recently published a delightful, insightful picture of the Greenwich Village area of Manhattan on your blog. Do you plan to use this setting in your future mystery novels?

PK: I haven't any plans to do so. But who knows. You never know when an idea will grab you and force you to develop it.

Q: You have a distinguished track record as a writer on non-fiction. What influenced you to turn your talents from that to the world of crime and mystery?

PK: I wanted to be a novelist when I was nine years old. But a working class kid from Patterson, New Jersey, didn't turn to the arts in those days. Though I studied literature in college, to earn a living, I got a job and wound up in the management development field. And being a compulsive writer, began to write nonfiction books in that area. But I continued to think up stories all my life and once my daughter was grown and my business established, I had time to develop my fiction writing skills.

Q: What writers have influenced your style and philosophy of crime writing? What mystery novels did you read in high school or college?

PK: Yikes, I could not begin to list them all. I am a voracious reader. As a little kid I went through all the Nancy Drew books in the Patterson Public Library Riverside Branch. I was an English Lit Major in college, and that left little time for nonacademic reading, but in summers I got into political thrillers and spy stories. Eric Ambler and John Le Carre come to mind. And of course Dame Agatha and Conan Doyle. With the kind of convent school education I had, it was inevitable that I would be drawn to the classics.

Q: In your writing what is most important to you - setting, plot, character?

PK: I wish I could say. By the time I produce a finished (if you could call it that) work, I cannot tease these issues apart. I begin with setting, because I begin by choosing a period of South American history that I find intriguing. Then I develop the plot elements that will help me reveal the history. But once the characters begin to walk around in my mind, they just take over and move everything else around.

Q: You have worked in professional fields other than publishing. How does this experience contribute to your crime writing?

PK: My business career (and my convent school education) gave me self-discipline. I need a lot of that. Also, I know a bit about book contracts and the publishing process. That is always useful.

Q: What is your advice to new members of MWA-NY who want to get published?

PK: Write every day. Hone your skills in every way you can. And never give up. It took me a couple of decades. But it was worth it. Boy, was it worth it!

* * *

Our thanks to Patricia for these words of wisdom and we wish her the best of success as she manages the New York Chapter of Mystery Writers of America the coming year!!!

T. J. Straw

Why Do We Re-read?

Recently I was made acutely aware that some of my books must go. I was looking around my apartment for a space to stash my latest acquisitions and found, to my horror, there were none. The only space left was the bathtub and I’m not going down that road. I have friends who have resorted to this, but not me. I’m too lazy. I can’t imagine having to remove a bunch of books before every shower. So out they go.

But which ones? How do I choose? I decided my criteria should be one, simple question: “Will I read this book again?” If the answer is, “No.” out it goes.

This led me to a more philosophical question. What makes a book re-readable? Why do I read some books over and over, and never open others again, once I’ve closed their cover? I’m not talking about bad books here. Or boring books. I’m talking about tried and true classics. What is the magical quality that drives me back to Austen, Sayers, Tey, Chandler, Poe, Stevenson, Cather, Salinger and Fitzgerald? But never to Hardy, Eliot, Tolstoy, Scott, Dostoevski, and various contemporary authors who will remain nameless? Is it a simple matter of taste?

I have pondered this question often because I would really like people to reread my books. My greatest desire is to have people treat my books like old friends and revisit them — with pleasure. But how do I write such books?

Does anyone out there know the secret of Austen, Chandler or Sayers? Are their characters more human? Do you like to hang out with them more? That can’t be it. I wouldn’t want to hang out with Daisy and Tom, or most of Philip Marlow’s cronies. Is it the satisfaction that justice is done? Not really. Certainly not in The Great Gatsby or “The Black Cat.” Is it the writing itself — the flow, the imagery, the wit — or a combination of these? I don’t think so. I’ve read plenty of beautifully written books — only once.

The first book I reread was Little Women, the second — Pride and Prejudice, and the third — Gaudy Night. After that I lost count. It didn’t matter that I knew Jo wouldn’t marry Laurie, or that Elizabeth would marry Darcy, or who wrote the obscene notes on Oxford’s hallowed walls. I relished these stories just as much, maybe even more, when I knew the outcome.

Why?

If any of you know the answer, please let me know.

— Robin Hathaway