My Blog: Word Raccoon’s World

The Freewriting has commenced!

Reader, I bought a Freewrite! While I haven’t been able to use it much yet, so far I love my Freewrite Traveler. (This is not a sponsored post. I wish.)

Here is my side of the text conversation I had with my darling daughter about it recently, lightly edited:

“It’s like a typewriter but it ONLY connects to the internet to save your writing. It’s a distraction-free writing device. Best for first drafts. I don’t know if I can justify the cost, but I bought it with mad money, because I just want it.

More pluses: it has a glare-free screen so I can write outside. It’s built to be used on the beach, too! In my dreams, your dad and I own a small place at the dunes, and I can write on the beach every day! My fantasy “retirement” in a box.

Also, it’s lightweight. Its keys are weighted and responsive, like a typewriter’s. And all the cool kids have one. (I actually don’t personally know anyone with one, though it could be they have one and I just don’t know it.)

You can’t easily look back at what you’ve written on it, so it tunnels you into your draft. Since anxiety is such a huge part of my writing process, it doesn’t let me agonize as much because I can’t go over and over it, at least not until I transfer the document over to revise it on my laptop. Once you do that, you can’t transfer it back over. It’s not playing about keeping you in hot draft mode.

I bought the travel version because it’s light and compact. It fits in most of my purses! Now I just need time to use it.”

My poor, indulgent daughter, listening to her mother go on about things that probably don’t interest her. On the other hand, she has a new puppy, a mini dachshund named Oskar, which thrills me. I hear we might get to meet him in October!

I know, I know. It’s hard to justify one of these contraptions, a Freewrite, but I’m at the planning stages (again? still?) of my third novel, and this, so far, has been perfect for it. I’ll know more later, when I’ve had more experience with it, but so far, it’s a dream tool.

If I were giving advice, I’d say get that “impractical” tool that your soul keeps asking for, whatever it is, if you can. There might be a reason it wants it that you just don’t know yet.

P.S. I spent my scheduled daily “Do whatever the hell you want” hour (mindset coach’s orders for this week) today reading Steven Pressfield’s newest release, Put Your Ass Where Your Heart Wants to Be. It literally took me less than an hour to read the whole thing. While I admittedly rolled my eyes at the first third which basically said move to wherever the action in your creative pursuit is, the short book inspired me. (Especially after he exempted writers because we can write anywhere. We still thrive best when we have a writing community of some kind, though, don’t we?) He reminded me in his book to open myself daily to the muse. I finished a short creative response about that earlier this morning, before I read his book. Coincidence? I think not.

Pressfield shared a gorgeous story about the sacrifices a pianist made to have his career, with all its ups and downs punctuated by playing, at best, an “acceptable” concert, because perfection just doesn’t exist. I can attest to this. Hubby and I did a show for a local retirement community recently. Though we had practiced, I had a dry spot in my throat and well, you can’t stop mid phrase to take a drink, so you push on. He said he didn’t notice, so I hope the audience didn’t, either. Expecting perfection, at my amateur level of singing, is laughable. But how frustrating it must be for the pianist who devotes at least six hours a day to practice, not to mention the discomfort of constant travel, to know he could only have a great concert, no perfection. (Chances are the undiscerning ear wouldn’t notice his “fumbles,” though.)

I’m glad there are artists of all stripes willing to take the time and effort to create. Life is richer for it.

This. Story. Wow. “Where We Leave Ourselves.”

Okay, Barry and I are newly back from Paris, and there is so much I want to write about, but I’m catching up on life first.

In the meantime, you must read this odd and powerful, evocative and curiosity-stirring story by my friend, poet Andrew Najberg. We have had meaningful conversations in several countries and airports on group trips, and that’s not something you can say about just anyone. He showed me a glorious patch of night sky and stars in Argentina unlike anything I’d ever seen.

I’ve spoken before of how I couldn’t breathe at a poetry reading he did and how I rose to escape only to discover I was in a long, long row, so I covered my ears, sat back down, and waited for him to be done. (It was just that moving! He knows how to clip close to human crucialities.)

Anyway, I have another, equally moving experience involving a concert Barry and I attended at Saint-Chapelle while in Paris to relay, but duty calls. And also, I have been chasing how the hell to explain what happened.

In the meantime, do read Andrew’s story. He has also recorded it. When I’m feeling braver, I’ll listen to it as well — his voice is beautifully intense.

I have a list of people whose writing I would publish were Barry and I ever to start a press. I don’t know if he would do us the honor (someone tell me emphatically NO if I ever say I want to start a press), but he’s on the list for sure.

P.S. It’s unfair (but also wonderful) that he’s both a talented poet and now fiction writer — his first novel is forthcoming.

Enjoy!

Drema

A Crescent of Beach Glass

I’m in the middle of a deep dive post about The Awakening, Kate Chopin’s novel, of course, but while I mull, I wanted to share a sliver of beauty.

You know that the beach is my happy place. Well, in all of the years that my sweetie and I have been going to this particular beach, I’ve found tiny pieces of beach glass but nothing big enough for my purposes: to have a former classmate who creates gorgeous necklaces make me one that I can carry when the sun decides to hide. Which is way too often, IMO.

In the past I have found smallish shards (red, clear, brown, green, and blue) and have placed them all over the house: in with my toiletries, on windowsills, just any place for an unexpected glimpse of joy. Occasionally, I carry a piece on my person. (Shh…)

Barry and I returned to our paradise this weekend, and I was, per usual, walking the beach, scanning for rocks of interest and beach glass. I intersected with a woman who was also scrutinizing the sand, and I asked her what she was looking for, in hopes I’d find something useful for her. She was likewise searching for beach glass. I told her about my hope to find a large enough piece for a necklace (or bracelet; I have a bracelet collection) and we wished one another luck.

Though I found a couple of tiny pieces that morning, my true treasure was the peace that the water brings, the stretching in the sun, the people watching, and knowing that my hubby awaited me when I returned to our chairs.

The next morning, we returned to the beach and pretty much repeated the day before, though we didn’t climb Mt. Tom as we had the previous day — it’s steeper than the photo below makes it look. (It was taxing but so rewarding! And now I want to complete the three-dune challenge. I don’t think the body’s up to that just now, but it’s a goal.)

I was maybe thirty seconds into my walk when I came across this!

Just minutes later I found another, smaller piece. I scanned the beach to see if the woman I had seen the day before was there so I could share, but she wasn’t.

In light of my mindset coach’s suggestion that I find many ways to “fail” by trying things I am unfamiliar with, I am going to attempt to make the necklace myself, guided by YouTube. I don’t think it will be too difficult, but if I fail, I will be reaching out to my friend in Florida and though she is a busy ice cream shop proprietor, I will beg her to help me!

You have no idea the happiness it brings me to imagine carrying summer with me all year.

P.S. In other “trying something new” news, because my favorite coffeehouse to write at is closed today, I am writing at the library instead. So far, so good. And I don’t have to resist a row of pastries, so there’s that.

And I’m going to drop in on a gentle yoga class tonight. I told the instructor that I’m nervous, but I’ll give it a try. I told her probably six months ago that I was going to stop in sometime. When I read on social media this morning that she has some slots open, I knew it was time to reach out before I lost my nerve.

Stay tuned for both that longer, more somber, post on The Awakening, as well as the chronicles of my “failures.” I have no doubt I’ll be good at that!

And let me know if there’s something new at which you’re going to attempt to “fail.” I’d love to applaud your efforts and successes. I mean, failures. 😉

I’m pretty sure I just convinced myself to put “complete the three-dune challenge” on my list. Dammit…

Baby Steps…

I’m being “serenaded” by my hubby’s band which is practicing downstairs right now. Damn, are they good! Just now they played “I Want You to Want Me” by Cheap Trick. Mission Accomplished! (Hubby sang lead on that, BTW, just so you’re not scandalized.)

Okay, that had to be said. It’s hard to focus on the task at hand while I’m hearing that fluid lead flaming off a guitar, the snap of the snare drum, and the plunk of those rich bass notes.

Anyway…When I find something helpful, I love to pass it along. So here’s this: I’m working with a mindset coach right now. Gasp! Did you know there was such a thing? Neither did I until a few months ago. When I found myself stuck, unable to move forward on a (non-writing) project and I also learned a person with whom I feel simpatico was becoming a mindset coach, I gladly signed up.

We initially talked about how to balance my schedule so I can write, work, and take on this new project. She suggested I listen to this episode of UFYB, the Pleasure First Principle. WARNING: THIS EPISODE IS NOT SAFE FOR WORK! The gist of it is, put the things you WANT to do on your calendar FIRST! Then DO THEM!

My coach and I determined pretty easily that writing should go on my schedule first. So, voila! I can’t say I’ve kept every writing appointment with myself, but at least I’m writing more, and that’s the point. She and I are meeting via Zoom weekly and she’s asking me my progress on not only my project, but my writing and other goals. I find myself rushing to finish up what I’ve said I would do before our next call so I don’t “disappoint” her. It’s been so useful. She calls me on my excuses and challenges me to rise to what I say I want to accomplish. She helps me past my fears and self-flagellation for my mistakes, missteps, and wasted time.

If you’re feeling unable to move forward with something you say you really, really want to do, maybe you should consider a coach, or maybe just schedule an appointment with yourself to identify and complete one baby step.

For me, that meant breaking my project down into small parts and assigning tasks to myself in ASANA. It’s a lot easier to complete a task such as “Write a list of five things about (….)” than it is to ask yourself to complete it all in a day.

I feel better for the progress I’ve made. More soon on that front.

Oh, and now Hubby’s playing the blazing lead from Van Halen’s version of “You Really Got Me.” Have mercy!

Let me know if you need a nudge in the right direction. I’m not a mindset coach, but I can at least cheer you on. Go, us!

Margreete’s Harbor

Margreete’s Harbor

Author, Eleanor Morse

St. Martin’s Press

384 Pages

I had this lovely book with me last summer on the beach, yet somehow I neglected to share my thoughts on this beauty with you until now. I’m sorry for the oversight, and when you read this quiet, elegant book, you’ll see why I owe you an apology.

This timeless book feels as if you could have taken it down from a library bookshelf fifty years ago and read it. It’s set in the 1950’s and 60’s, so I suppose its classic nature makes sense.

Opening with a raging fire in Margreete’s kitchen, that first scene helps the reader quickly see what Margreete cannot/will not: the older, independent woman should no longer live alone.

Since she will not give up her lifelong home, it falls to her daughter, Liddie, and her family to uproot and move in with her. Thus begins a decade with the stunningly well-drawn family.

Liddie’s inability to find more time for her cello practice amid increasing family responsibilities speaks to the inherently sacrificial nature of love. Yes, she finds small gulps of fulfillment, but she gives up her larger goals in service to her mother’s wellbeing.

She’s not the only one to sacrifice. Her husband, Harry, has finally settled into a teaching position he likes in Michigan when Liddie insists they move back to Maine. Eventually, he jeopardizes his new teaching position by speaking political truths not in the textbook, and one gets the feeling that’s not the only thing he’s questioning.

Their children adjust to the move and have many tender moments with their grandmother. Little Eva allows her grandmother to share her bed when her grandparent takes to roaming the house at night. Bernie doesn’t complain about his grandmother’s idiosyncrasies such as hiding the remains of dinner in her purse, lovingly interacting with her.

Written with lyrical, compelling prose, this novel is literary fiction at its finest. And its title does it justice: her family has become Margreete’s harbor, and you love them for it.

If you’re already a fan of Eleanor Morse or of Anne Tyler or Ann Patchett, (and I am a fan of all three) this book is for you.

Full disclosure: I have known and admired the author, Eleanor Morse, for over a decade. She’s a brilliant writer with a kind, gentle soul. All of her novels are just as thoughtful as she is, so if you’re not familiar with her work, now’s the time to consider picking up one of her books.

Reading All Day!

As a fan of Gretchen Rubin and Elizabeth Craft, of course I made a “22 for 2022” list. After four years (I think) of creating these lists of things I want to do within the current year, this year I remembered to include some fun, relaxing, and immediately achievable things.

So I ordered earbuds for my Mac: check. Twenty-one (or so) things to go.

Hubby and I have already had one date night, with four dates to go. (All five count as one item. Slick, aren’t I?)

There are other items on my list that are in progress, such as painting the bathroom. I’ve mostly completed that, but it needs touching up. Badly.

I sprained my ankle climbing up and down the ladder and am waiting for it to heal before I complete the job. But the color is a gorgeous lilac. It makes all the difference in the small room.

One of the things I am most excited about on my 2022 list is having a day devoted to reading. I asked Barry if he’d like to join me, and he gave an enthusiastic yes, so this Saturday is the day!

Even better — we are going to read the same book, Daisy Jones and the Six. I read it a few months ago, and it affected me so much I couldn’t even talk about it. I added a t-shirt with one of its best lines to my Christmas wish list.

When I opened the gift and teared up, Hubby asked why it moved me so much. I finally mentioned the book, but I still couldn’t talk about it. It gutted me, that book. I don’t know why, but it’s exquisitely written, so there’s that. And I’ve just written a novel about songwriting, so that may play into it.

*One of my favorite Christmas presents.*

Nope, I’m still not ready to talk about it, but I am ready to re-read it. I can only hope Barry enjoys the book as much as I did. And devoting a whole day to reading? What a luxury.

I can say this much about the book: it explores the seductive power of co-creation, and how the result of personal heartache can be damn fine art, though at what cost? The author, Taylor Jenkins Reid, has said it is loosely based on imagining what happened in the band Fleetwood Mac. (If you don’t know that story, it’s worth an internet search.)

We both have a pile of backup books if we’re not feeling Daisy. If I know Hubby, there will be a stack of comics beside his reading perch just in case. I’m 100 pages into a novel I’ll probably abandon, though I rarely do that, but reading it is an option. This is the third time I’ve attempted to read this author, and she just doesn’t send me, which I hate, because everyone says such good things about her work.

I’ve been meaning to read Daniel Deronda for a few years now, so maybe it’s time to dip into that, if I need to change it up. Winter is the best time to read lengthy tomes, don’t you think?

They are making a miniseries out of Daisy apparently featuring Elvis Presley’s granddaughter, Riley Keough, if the reports are accurate. I both want to see it when it comes out and not. I have a love/hate relationship with screen adaptations of most books. It’s complicated. Well, maybe it’s not: if it’s too much like the book, I prefer the pictures in my head. If it’s too dissimilar, I get indignant at the liberties they’ve taken. I had a friend once say I’m a complicated woman. He’s not wrong.

If you have any free time this weekend, I invite you to spend some of it reading. If you do, let me know what you read.

When Children Ruled the World

I have a new favorite Christmas book!

This beautiful children’s book, When Children Ruled the World, by Sena Jeter Naslund, is a gem. From its heartwarming story featuring little Una to its exquisite wood engravings by Joanne Price, this is an instant classic. (Una is a name familiar to Sena’s readers. If you know, you know. If you don’t, go acquaint yourself with the parallel.)

Barry holds our newly arrived copy of Sena’s book.

Oh, and it mentions pine cones! Have I ever said over here how much I love pine cones?

I don’t want to say too much about this slim volume, because I don’t want to give away its glories, but ah, read it if you want a cozy, holiday read.

Full disclosure: Sena is one of my favorite people in the world. Her gorgeous writing is only one of those reasons, but wow can she write! I want so badly to share some of the vivid images found in this book, but I won’t. The discoveries along the journey are part of the fun of reading, aren’t they?

I found myself studying her sentences as I devoured this Christmas cookie, following each word eagerly. Perfect, each! I’m so, so happy this gorgeous book is a part of our world, and particularly, a part of my world now.

Brava, Sena. Brava! This is going on our bookshelf right beside A Christmas Carol. We love it!

Order yours today! It comes wrapped in brown paper just like a gift, and you can only order it through the mail, which I also love. What a thing of beauty.

P.S. Barry and I have had the privilege of meeting Hugo, the bright young grandson to whom Sena dedicated this book. I know he will cherish it just as much as the rest of us do and ever will.

It came wrapped like an old-fashioned parcel from a store. How fun!

Title: When Children Ruled the World, A Christmas Story

By: Sena Jeter Naslund

Wood Engravings: Joanne Price
This book was handset in Cloister Lightface type, printed on a hand-fedC & P , then handbound.
Regular edition (paper): Handsewn with a paper wrap: $28.00
Regular edition (cloth): Handsewn and bound in red Japanese book cloth over boards: $36.00
Send Orders to: Larkspur Press, 340 Sawdridge Creek West, Monterey, Kentucky 40359

PLEASE add $6.50 for postage. Kentucky residents add 6 percent sales tax.

MAKE CHECKS PAYABLE to Larkspur Press.
For special editions with marbled papers by Debbie Shannon and two-color engravings by Joanne Price, signed by author and illustrator: $175.

Phone evenings 502-484-5390

Paint Your Wall!

I have been staring at a particular wall in our house every time I pass it. Why, you ask? Because I spent part of an afternoon painting that wall!

Previously, I hated that very wall. It was a paneled “accent” wall that did anything but. It was kinda off white with burgundy and tiny designs. Yuck!

For some reason, I have tolerated it the entire time we have lived in this house, sixteen years now. Once the pandemic hit and the world started with the daily Zoom calls, I had to face facts: I could no longer bear that wall behind me on calls.

Side note: if you’re like me and you’re not a fan of the phone, try adding on video. So. Much. Worse. Why, world, why? I’ve grown accustomed to it, but at first…

I have had “paint the dining room wall” on my list now for months. I kept moving it forward. I put “choose a paint the wall or pay” date on my calendar. What I meant was if I didn’t paint it by the date, I would hire our neighbor (a professional house painter) to paint it. But I’m frugal, and I like to do things on my own schedule.

Still, I couldn’t seem to get that wall painted.

The week came, and I chose a date, because I try to follow my calendar. It’s how I get things done even when they are things I don’t enjoy. Especially when they are things I don’t enjoy. (Never underestimate the power of crossing items off a list.)

Reader, I’m sorry to report that the appointed day came and went and I DID NOT paint the wall. Sigh.

So I put on the calendar “PAINT YOUR DAMNED WALL.”

I tried focusing on the new message center I’ll be adding to it, and how I will be able to put my two prints of Victorine in that spot, and how I won’t have to wrinkle my nose every time I passed the wall, but for some reason, I couldn’t make it happen.

Except.

Except when I told the manager of the cafe I often work out of that I likely wouldn’t see her the next day because I was going to make myself stay home and paint, she commiserated with me, having a similar project she has been putting off herself.

When I explained to her what was holding me back, it no longer seemed so difficult. So what that I had to move a few things, find the paint and painting supplies? And as for not wanting to make a mess, hadn’t I been saving those annoying free newspapers they send every week (The very paper at which I once worked! I was halfway there.) for months? So what that I couldn’t immediately lay my hands on the painter’s tape. Couldn’t I simply buy more if I needed to? (I found it, btw.)

Not that I started it on Friday after all. But I did start it (and finish it!) on Saturday.

I did it in stages, another trick that works for me. I stripped the artwork off the wall. I shifted my guitar from its spot by the wall (Yes, I play. Rarely, but I do a tiny bit.). Barry helped me move the furniture.

I located the roller refills, the paintbrushes.

After brunch last Saturday, after Barry and I had spent a fun half hour buying Christmas decorations, after we took a gorgeous fall drive (and I told him to get me home while the caffeine from brunch still had me energized enough to dive in), I rounded up the last of the supplies, put in my earbuds, and closeted him in his music room (because it’s just off the dining room) with instructions to knock and be sure I’d heard him before he exited the room so I wouldn’t accidentally paint him!)

Barry was in his music room for a particular reason: we are going to be part of an opera workshop in February. I’m not sure how much more we’re allowed to say about it yet, but I am so excited to be performing with him. The opera he was in last year was on PBS recently. I’m always so proud of his performances.

So he was learning his music, pounding out notes on the piano while I was listening to The Book Review Podcast by the New York times. (I inevitably don’t get to it until Saturday afternoon.)

I took the project step by step, which is generally the best way to take projects, especially when you’re like me and randomly suffer from anxiety over nothing and everything. I taped the trim. I stirred the paint, did a bad job of it, called Barry in to look at it because I wondered if I’d fetched the wrong can of paint. He stirred it better than I had (oops) and then it was fine. Go figure. (Has a Tom Sawyer and the fence vibe to it, doesn’t it? I promise that wasn’t my intention, but it worked out that way.)

Then I just did it. I just started painting. It didn’t even take very long.

Afterwards, I browsed Etsy for new outlet covers, laughed to see that the ones I wanted cost almost $20 each, and promptly watched a YouTube video on how to decoupage some myself. Now I’m having all kinds of fun deciding what paper to use. (I kinda already know — I’m probably going to use my vintage art postcard collection. I can’t wait to dive in!)

My point is, we all have an unpainted wall. Whatever yours is, I encourage you to paint it. This weekend. After all, now I get to pass mine every day and admire it. I’m going to have a wall behind me on Zoom calls that prettily displays things dear to me. That means a lot.

So go paint your damned wall. Bonus points if you come back here and tell me what yours was. I’ll be here, rooting for you. As always.

Stay Home – A Year of Writing Through Lockdown

I’m pleased to share that an essay of mine has been included in the UK-based anthology, Stay Home – A Year of Writing Through Lockdown, out now. I wrote the essay what seems like a long time ago.

My thanks to the editors at Chasing Driftwood Writing Group for including my essay. Re-reading it, I’m remembering those days in the backyard, drink in hand, listening to Barry play guitar, having him home all the time, which I loved. (As a matter of fact, my husband is mowing said yard as I write. But there will be no drinks tonight, only work for me. And that’s okay.)

Alas, the good times we tried to focus on during the lockdown were not all good. I don’t believe I’ve mentioned here that I lost my sweet Aunt Dorothy to COVID-19 a few months ago. She was my mother’s last surviving sibling, and thankfully I was able to see her four years ago after not having seen her for years (due to distance).

When I was a child, she took me to my first dental appointment and she was a great comfort to the apprehensive child I was that day.

She was fashionable, gorgeous, and funny, despite having the lifelong sorrow of having lost her daughter, Jennifer, when my cousin was just a toddler.

Of course, I am not at all alone in having lost loved ones to this horror of a pandemic, but it sucks.

In the future, this anthology I was lucky enough to be included in could well be research material for those who come after us who haven’t experienced this time.

Proceeds from the sale of this anthology go to fund future projects of the CIC. I am pleased to have been included in it. The initial essay I wrote that ran on their website caused me to pause mid-pandemic and reflect, and I’m grateful for that opportunity.

How are you doing with Delta, and I don’t mean Burke? The crew at my favorite coffeeshop has been hit by it, leaving only one intrepid employee who was away on vacation and so was spared infection, to manage the whole place this past week. This stuff is no joke! Try to stay well.

Cut from the Earth by Stephanie Renee Dos Santos

In Lisbon in 1755, a devastating earthquake changes the city forever. The months just before the event are the intriguing backdrop for Stephanie Renee Dos Santos’ vivid debut novel, Cut from the Earth. Closely examining the overlooked origin of the art of the figura de convite style of tilework, this richly detailed novel both arrests the reader with the sensory pleasures Dos Santos provides and compels the reader to continue on. A stunning blend of intriguing plot and lyrical language, this novel delights.

The figura de convite style of tilework, life-sized, cut-out tiles of figures, welcomed visitors when they visited palaces, and were produced in the 18^th and 19^th centuries. They are only found in Portugal. Dos Santos says not much is known about the creator of the style, other than the initials PMP. Her novel imagines just who PMP was and what the creator’s life was like. The mere concept of the novel enthralled me, as I like mysteries, as I like the teasing out of things we have no way of knowing. I was not disappointed!

Not only the artwork, but the tension between the Inquisition, the Catholic Church’s question to do away with any heresy against itself, and the Enlightenment, an attempt to bring reason and science to society, rather than being controlled by the Church, saturate the novel. It’s personified in the main character, Pêro Manuel Pires, a renowned Portuguese tilemaker, who is also dedicated to freeing slaves and hiring them in his tile factory. Unfortunately, this and the risqué designs of someone thought not worthy (avoiding a spoiler here!) of creating them brings Pires to the attention of the Inquisition, where his faith is questioned, and his livelihood and his very life are threatened.

Even the tragedy that strikes Lisbon is told with such force and detail it is as beautifully described as the tile making. Dos Santos immerses her reader into this world, both the time and place, knowing, like a good conductor, when to ask the horns for more, when to ask the woodwinds to back off. This novel is just stunning.

Interweaving charming scenes of family life with brutal scenes of the other side of society at that time, Dos Santos knows when to apply the pressure and when to relieve it. For instance, Pêro and his lovely daughters, Constanza and Isabela, view the display at a bakery shop: “Isabela lingered in front of a pastry shop, its pane filled with golden egg yolk custards and doughy delicacies of barriga de freiras, ‘belly of nuns.’” I find that so sweet and beautiful. The shops they pass are described in such gorgeous depth that you want to really be there. No, you think you are there.

The opening scene gives us this hint of cruelty: “Pêro glanced at his own right hand, to the stumped third and fourth finger, his mouth a tight white line.” We know this has been done to him, and we learn just how barbarously it was done.

When the earthquake strikes, it brings tragedy and leaves everything in jeopardy.

Combining rich historical facts and imagination where needed, Stephanie has created one of the most memorable books of the year, one I can’t wait to re-read. I long for the next installment.