Drawing for Paintings: In the Dutch Golden Age of Art

When I set out to write my novel about Judith Leyster, I knew I would have to learn how she and other artists in early and mid-17th century Holland made their paintings. What material did she paint on? How did she make her paints, and where did they come from? Did she sketch out her paintings first? With the help of a few great books and one very generous Leyster expert, I was able to construct a studio and a process for Judith.

Judith Leyster, self portrait.

In my novel, she uses live models, props, and copy books to develop her paintings. Judith might sketch out a few scenes on her erasable tafelet, but she mostly paints as she goes, adjusting layer by layer.  

Was that how she really painted? We don't know. But the National Gallery of Art has an exhibit about drawing and painters' artistic processes.

Ambrosius Bosschaert

Take a look at the National Gallery of Art's online demonstration of the underdrawings.  And if you can, head over to the exhibit. I'll see you there!

The Practice of Rejection

The summer before I started high school I attended a month-long summer camp in Coastal North Carolina. During the day, our all-girls camp sailed, swam, ate terrible cafeteria food, and tried not to let anyone spot our strange, changing bodies in the communal shower space. At twelve and thirteen years old, we were on the cusp of adolescence and independence.

Which meant, in other words, kissing.

Well, that's what I wanted it to mean. Our girl's camp was partnered with a boy's camp, and we had a few mixed dances. Once the stars came up in the bright, rural sky, we would titter among ourselves and stare longingly at the other sex. (Woe to any child who was staring longingly at her own sex. Such staring was, literally, prohibited.)

One night, we boys and girls sat in a large circle on the tennis court. Behind us, a few lucky couples danced to quiet DJ music. The counselors tried to make conversation, but honestly, they probably weren't much older than the rest of us. Finally, one of them said, "Well, aren't you all going to ask each other to dance?"

I sat next to my friend, or the girl who I could get to hang out with me that night. We were both wearing vintage dresses, which I thought were much more elegant than the sun dresses I had brought from home. My strappy yellow number was gauzy and beautiful, but a little too revealing, so I wore a white t-shirt beneath it. I felt pretty but conspicuous.

"Isn't someone going to ask someone else to dance?"

I took a deep breath. Then I stood up, walked across the large circle, and stood in front of a cross-legged boy. Everyone sat silently and watched.

"Would you dance with me?"

He was silent. My heart started to sink.

"Come on, give her an answer," said his counselor.

He was still silent. I shifted my weight, and was glad it was dark so no one could see the pink rising in my cheeks.

"No," he said quietly.

I turned back around and walked to my seat.

So, rejection. The word comes from French, which itself comes from Latin for "to throw back." When we're rejected, it's hard not to feel thrown back into the dung heap, tossed back to where we came from.

I don't think I ever asked a stranger to dance again.

But that's ridiculous, obviously. I don't know why that boy didn't want to dance. Maybe his foot hurt. Maybe he didn't want to stand up in front of all his friends. Maybe he didn't like girls in yellow vintage dresses. But what's certain is that he didn't know anything about me. We had never met, and could hardly see one another. Yet I felt as if he had thrown me back.

Writers deal with rejection all the time. Or, I should say, we get rejection all the time. I've had over 20 short stories rejected this year already, and 15 last year. (That's actually not much; I clearly didn't submit enough last year!) And I don't know a single writer who doesn't look at that pile of rejection slips and wonder why he's even bothering to try.

But I also know that I'm grateful for my rejections. I'm grateful that I didn't launch a writing career with the novel I first queried in 2009. I loved that manuscript, but I had no idea what I was doing. It took me six more years of writing (two more novels) and countless more rejections before I signed with an agent. Some of those rejections were helpful. Some of them hurt, because I felt a connection. All of them I had to let go.

If you don't let go of the rejections, if you decide you will never put yourself out there again, the only one you're hurting is yourself. I would have had a lot more fun dancing over the years if I'd asked a few more cute boys (or girls) to dance. I wish I had. I also would have gotten rejected again.

That's life, though. The universe doesn't owe me anything. So if I want to dance, or if I want to see my stories published, I have to keep trying. I'll learn from my experiences (pick a journal that publishes stories I love, and pick a dance partner who I've spoken with before). I practice getting rejected until I can shrug and say, "Oh well. That's too bad, but maybe next time." 

I practice yoga, and one of my favorite aspects of yoga is how every pose has an element of effort and an element of surrender. Even while struggling to hold my arms straight and my leg deeply bent in Warrior Two, I relax my shoulders. Even while surrendering myself in a humble forehead-to-floor Child's Pose, I exert a small amount of effort to lower my hips farther toward my heels.

Accepting rejection involves both exertion -- catching the work that has been thrown back to you, looking at it again, working over it again -- and surrender. I will accept that I can control very little about what happens to my work once I send it out there.

I'm writing this now because the PitchWars agent round is coming up, and some people will feel rejected if they don't get the requests they want from the agents participating. Some people will get rejections from those requests. Some writers will send out query letters and get still more rejections. (Which goes for non-PitchWars writers too, obviously.)

That's ok. If you love this, you will write because you need to. You'll try to get published because it's fun to have a dream. And you'll keep practicing. Everything.

Ten steps to writing a pretty decent book review

When I started my first job after grad school, my grown-up gift to myself was a Sundays-only subscription to the Washington Post. I'd spend each Sunday sitting in my one-bedroom apartment with the newspaper crammed onto my tiny drop-leaf table. As the birds chirped outside and the early morning sun slanted onto my dingy plaster walls, I would read the newspaper from front to back. Even the Automotive section. 

But the section that I most reluctantly opened was Book World. Why bother to read about books that I wasn't ever going to pick up?

Eventually, though, I'd flip the pages on Book World. I had to read the whole newspaper (don't ask), and Book World did rate above the Sports section.

Books from my bookshelf.

And it turns out, book reviews are actually damn interesting.

I found that they aren't 5th grade book reports, but rather essays on all the topics that books cover -- which is to say, every single interesting topic under the sun. So I didn't need to read the biography of Dollie Madison to learn something about her. I could glean that from the Washington Post's beautiful review.

As my own writing became a more important part of my life, I became more interested in fiction reviews. Who is the publishing world interested in now, and what makes her novel succeed (or not)?

Eventually, my book review interested developed into an obsession, and I joined the team of the Washington Independent Review of Books.

Which means I have many opinions on book reviews.

They're a useful (if often bemoaned) part of the literary ecosystem. Reviews start a discussion on a book, and talking about books is a pleasure second only to reading them. Reviews might point readers toward a beautiful book, or away from a story some might not like. Writers love the reviews readers leave. And the more society spends its time writing and thinking about books, the better for all of us.

So whether you're reviewing on Amazon, GoodReads, or edited publications like WIROB or LA Review of Books, here are some steps to guide you.*

1. Read the book. Obviously, right? But take this part seriously. Underline, make notes, and highlight themes. Indulge your inner marginalia manic. When you’re done, reread the book. Or at least, reread sections and survey your notes.
2. Plan. Think about what you want to say and how you’ll structure it. Work here will save you trouble later.
3. Craft your hook. What’s going to draw the reader into your particular essay? This could be a theme from the book, a broader lesson about humanity the book raises, an autobiographical note about the author, or (least often) a personal anecdote – among other options.
4. Introduce the book. You probably don’t need to give the title of the book (that should be evident from the title of the review), though publication styles will vary. But make it clear if you’re considering fiction, nonfiction, mystery, etc. (Unless the publication makes such categorization self-evident.)
5. Summarize key points. This is often the most challenging part to do elegantly, but it’s also the most important. Or maybe second most important, after the hook. A reader needs to have a sense of what the book is about.
6. Don’t spoil the book. A book review isn’t a critical essay (usually), so you don’t need to examine every last development. Tantalize your reader by hitching a ride on the book’s suspense. Leave some questions unanswered.
7. Provide some analysis. This doesn’t have to come as a separate section after the synopsis, though often that’s the easiest way to handle it. Here, don’t fixate too much on if you “liked” the book, but rather, consider where the book was successful in the objectives it set for itself.
8. Close with either an echo of the hook or an important take-away. Provide a sense of conclusion.
9. Let the essay sit. Like any writing, you need some time away to gain perspective. At least a day is best, if you can.
10. Revise. Make sure the ideas still make sense, and then check spelling, etc. If there are heavy edits, repeat steps 9 and 10 again.

* Be sure to read your publication’s guidelines first. Every publication will have different style preferences.

Confessions of a PitchWars Mentor

When Brenda announces the #PitchWars mentees this week, I'm going to be pretty freakin' torn. 

I'll be feeling 50% ecstatic and excited to work with some beautiful words and moving characters (oh, the characters). But I'll be feeling entirely equally 50% devastated for those whose hearts will sink, even the smallest bit, into their shoes when they don't see their names.

As I've mentioned on the feed, I entered #PitchWars twice. In 2015 and 2014 (or was it 2013? I'd just had a baby and I don't remember much from that time). The first time, I got a couple of requests. The second time, with a different and much better manuscript, I received zero requests. Both times I knew my chances were slim. 

Not getting picked still hurt. Not as much the second time, because I was more seasoned by rejection in general by then, but still. And I'm going to be feeling for you when that announcement goes out, because I've seen how much heart and love you put into your stories.

And in some cases, I really don't have a good reason for why I didn't pick your manuscript.

During this process, I've lost sleep trying to reason my way through this. I'm trying to find the perfect manuscript for me -- that one that I can love AND help, all in two months. I'm also trying not to hurt you all. I want to do justice to the hopes you've raised by entering PitchWars. (Which, let's just remind ourselves, is just one very subjective contest.)

Some manuscripts I won't be picking simply because I think my vision for the story is too different from the author's. It wouldn't be fair for me to ask you to drastically rewrite your story in two months. I will tell you in my feedback what my ideas are, and I'd be glad to chat with you about them if that's you. But I have to respect your artistic choices.

Some manuscripts I won't pick because there's something ineffable about them that just isn't my style. I'll try to explain this in feedback when I can articulate it, because sometimes other people might react the same way. Other times, it's just taste. Hey, dinosaur porn isn't my thing. But you know, it's big in Paraguay ... (I am completely making that up. Sorry Paraguay.) These are often small things that couldn't fit in my wish list, or preferences I didn't even know I had.

Some manuscripts have great concepts, but the writing wasn't strong enough for me to feel the writer could make the changes in two months. I'm going to try to give those writers some pointers in feedback. If those writers keep working, they can improve. I promise.

But then ... there are the ones that  keep me tossing and turning at 11pm. That make my stomach wrench with guilt. That I just didn't love. For whatever reason. To you, especially, I'm sorry.

For those who get that brick to the gut on announcement day (whenever that is in your timezone), some thoughts.

• Take a break if you need to. Let yourself feel sad. The first time I didn't get in, I had a self-declared pout day.
• When you're ready, listen to the feedback you get. If you don't get any, tell the mentors. Someone will probably have time. (But no guarantees. They're a busy bunch.)
• Rely upon the #PitchWars community. Find a CP. Read mentor blogs on craft. Read some of the craft books I recommended in earlier posts.

And should you throw it all away?

I don't know. Maybe. It depends on how the manuscript makes you feel. Are you sick of it? Ready to start a new story? Then do that. Ready to quit writing and garden? Do that too. Ready to dive back into the MS and try to make it better? Fantastic.

The bottom line is, folks, you only live life once. There are no guarantees about getting published. Don't make yourselves miserable trying to chase some holy grail of publishing success.  Most of us won't get there, to be honest. (I have no idea if I'll get published either, but this is one thing I don't lose sleep over.)

But we CAN find success and joy in different places. Like anything in life, enjoy the journey. If you love the process of researching, creating new worlds, scheming plot twists and plumbing characters' depths, then take joy in that process. Maybe you'll get published, maybe not. But at least, at the end of your road, you can say you had fun along the way.

And I'll be looking to cheer for you on each step. Please, keep in touch! You are a beautiful group of writers. I don't know what you look like -- I'm talking about your artistic cores. From what I've seen, you're creative, thoughtful, and in love with the written word.

Or: my kind of people.

Peace.

How Do I Edit Thee? Let Me Count The Ways ...

Our mentor wishlist posts are supposed to have a lot of information, but I'm trying (no, really) to keep that post short. So I'm going to split off the "how do you edit" part and share that here.

Edith Wharton's house. What do you mean that has nothing to do with this post? Phef.

By now you've probably read all the books I recommended previously, so let's add a few more to the list! These ones are more oriented towards the nuts-and-bolts, and are very useful:

• Technique in Fiction by Robie Macauley and George Lanning (I have the 2nd edition)
• A Short Story Writer's Companion by Tom Bailey

These are the ones I might turn to if my mentee needs help with, say, characterization or the use of time. In case you couldn't tell, I'm always eager to pass along recommended reading. 

For example, Technique has a chapter on characterization that explores the various methods writers use to bring their characters to breathing, sweating, bleeding life. Novelists can present an introductory portrait of a character as soon as he steps on the stage, or they can intersperse details like physical appearance, speech, attitude toward self and others, and the physical surroundings throughout the narrative. Macauley and Lanning give eloquent examples for various methods. 

So if my mentee is struggling with bringing her characters to life, I'm probably going to scan a copy of this chapter and send it over. (If I can figure out my scanner. Ha.)

Hopefully this and some of my other posts on editing will give a better sense of my style. To sum it up:

I don't have a didactic, rules-oriented approach. Writers develop best by reading other books and learning about craft, and I want to help my mentee grow as a writer. I'll ask a lot of questions about the manuscript and suggest places for improvement. I'm happy to brainstorm possibilities in a phone call or something, but I'm a firm believer in an author needing to find his own solutions. Editors can highlight the problems and even make suggestions, but writers need to resolve them. I don't have all the answers, and I want to learn from you too.

However, we'll have to move fast in order to make the most of our very brief two months, so I'm going to try to throw as much at my mentee as possible in the beginning. That means a long checklist of things to fix and a tight timeline to work with.

Let's do a little distance mentoring now. One thing I'd like to ask my mentee to do but might not have time for is to rewrite the first chapter in a different point-of-view. Is your chapter written in close third? Try first. Or swap that. Or try omniscient third, and experiment with adding in an authorial voice (comments from the invisible storyteller). Anything, so long as it's different. Then see how that feels. Sometimes we've written a novel in the wrong POV. Or sometimes it's just helpful to learn something new about your story by getting outside of the car, walking around, and checking out the bumper.

Happy writing and editing!

Lugo, Spain. Because I love Spain, that's why.

On How Editing Is Like Making Witches' Potion

Double, double toil and trouble; 
    Fire burn, and caldron bubble. 
       Fillet of a fenny snake, 
    In the caldron boil and bake; 
    Eye of newt, and toe of frog, 
    Wool of bat, and tongue of dog, 
    Adder's fork, and blind-worm's sting, 
    Lizard's leg, and owlet's wing,— 
    For a charm of powerful trouble, 
    Like a hell-broth boil and bubble.

We'll walk past Macbeth's witches at their cauldron and leave them at their work, for a moment.  First, let's talk about what editing is NOT. Or, a tale of five manuscripts.

1. A young writer's first completed manuscript. Yay! Rejoice! Read it over once and print it at Kinkos. Bind it with a pretty cover and present it to a patient boyfriend. All done!
2. A second novel, this one more ambitious in scope. Yay, it's done! Rejoice! Read it over a few times. Fix the awkward phrasings. Correct some plot holes. Then the writer wonders why her aunt doesn't love it.
3. A third novel manuscript. The drafting of this one actually involved an outline, so there's structure. Yay! Rejoice! This time the writer attends a writing conference, where an angel of epiphany appears in the form of renowned author B.A. Shapiro. She points out that editing has to look at layers of the manuscript: beginning to end, yes, but also within each chapter, and then each paragraph and each sentence. Does a chapter start on one note and end on another? Is the story always moving forward, with every chapter giving the reader a new development? Highlighters come out to flag bad dialogue and crutch words. So, Kinkos makes lots of money printing out the manuscript a few times.
4. A fourth manuscript emerges, blinks at the harshness of the light glinting from the writer's editing knife, and slinks back into the drawer.
5. A fifth manuscript slowly comes to life. It gathers plot and character like a snowball rolling down a hill. An editor comes along to streamline dialogue (Don't repeat things! Be efficient!) and focus character arc. An agent comes along and points out all the places the characters have gotten lost. The manuscript goes on a few diets, loses nearly half of its body weight, and gains it back again. It might not be healthy, but she sure looks good in the end.

Editing is hard, and I had no idea what it meant when I started. Like most ignorant folks, I thought I knew: sure, I write for my day job, I know how to edit. Iron out the purple prose, get rid of the passive voice. Good enough.

Nope. Editing is much, much more than that. It starts with taking a big step back from your work and seeing what the novel is about at the macro level.

• What does the protagonist want, and how is she going to change herself and her life to get there?
• How do the supporting characters reflect the different ways this conflict plays out?
• Are you balancing digression (which gives a novel a sense of richness) with economy (which keeps the story focused and avoids bloat)?
• Does the story start in the right place? Does the story start the day the protagonist's life changed?
• Does it end in the right place? Is there enough of a sense of resolution to satisfy the reader?
• Are you showing the right scenes? In other words, does each crisis in the rising action happen on stage? If not, should the reader see that crisis?
• Are some scenes superfluous? Do they just convey information to the reader without developing the characters or advancing the plot?
• Does character development happen via actions or via "telling"? Or, how much do we learn from watching the characters act as opposed to reading about background or thoughts in narration?
• Does the climax force the protagonist to make a choice? Has she earned the final pay-off?

That's only a partial list, of course. And of course, there's no right answer to any of them (though there are many very useful conventions). Each novel will have a unique answer -- but they do need to be answered.

Which brings us back to those witches. They're tossing in ingredients one by one, stirring, tasting, testing. It's a deeply iterative process. If the potion doesn't work, they toss in another tongue of newt. If it still doesn't work? They might fish out that cat skeleton, or boil off some water. And if it's still a holy mess? They might pour a whole bunch out and start over, partially or completely.

It's an imperfect metaphor, yes. But hopefully you see what I'm saying. Editing is a lot more than twiddling at the edges or running spell check. Editing is digging out the guts of your manuscript with a spoon, and making sure all the pieces are in the right place.

Don't think I still don't struggle with this. There's always something I forget or can't see when I'm buried in my own stories. That's why I now always print out my manuscripts and go over them on paper. There's nothing like the physical form for seeing if your chapters balance (try laying them out on the floor to see how the compare), and if your words make sense (read out loud, or even better, get someone else to read it out loud). And everything else I listed above.

There's no right answer, just hard work. Good luck!

Write, Read, Repeat

You learn the funniest things on Twitter. Like ... spacesuits for cows, or #SharkWeek, or that those backpack purses are still considered fashionable (who knew?). My favorite stuff, of course, is about writing. Recently, an intern at a literary agency tweeted this:

So people who want a publishing industry professional to take them seriously tell that same professional that everything she and her colleagues work on is flawed?

Ok, we're all flawed. But let's set that aside for a moment. What these queriers are really saying is that they haven't read much recently, so they don't know how awesome the literature out there is. (There's even a psychological phenomenon where the less-informed rate their own abilities more highly. Now that's enough to give you anxiety insomnia about your own skills for nights on end.)

And the literature out there is awesome. It's flawed (publishing is a human enterprise, after all), and it's missing a lot of stories. But that just means there's more room for more stories, like yours! There always will be.

Therefore, the first step in sharing your story is seeing, really, how it fits in with the thousands (millions?) of amazing stories already out there. Which means reading. Lots.

But you already do that. You read fiction in your genre, and out of it. How do you improve your writing beyond that?

I resisted picking up books about writing for a long time, because I was afraid they would overly influence me. (I'm very susceptible to suggestion.) That may have been right at the beginning, but eventually I needed help. So I turned to craft books, and fell head over heels in love.

These are my favorites. My PitchWars mentee is probably going to have some assigned reading, depending on what issues we need to tackle together. (Not a whole book, I promise! Maybe I promise.) But I figured I'd post this publicly, so folks can read along or pick up some pointers.

• Bird by Bird by Anne Lamont. You can't do better than this funny, sensitive book about the emotional trials of living a writer's life. Required reading for keeping your sanity afloat.
• Reading Like a Writer by Francine Prose. This is a paean to fiction, and it's impossible to come away from the book without a deep appreciation for fiction and a profound sense of humility. Which is really useful, actually.
• Story by Robert McKee. I struggle with plot. I'm not a natural storyteller. Reading this book -- which is aimed at screenplay writers but is applicable to all -- was a huge game-changer. I can't recommend it highly enough.
• Write Away by Elizabeth George.  Similarly, this book is a pretty practical guide to the nuts and bolts of writing fiction, following Ms. George's own model. She has great advice for those who struggle with character.
• Eats, Shoots & Leaves by Lynne Truss. Because punctuation makes communication easier. Really. (And Truss is hilarious.)

I think that's enough for now. Maybe we'll touch on some more specific topics as I read queries and sample pages.

Ambition Versus Contentment

Used bookstores seem to have the magical ability to provide you just the book you needed, no matter what you thought you were looking for. We recently visited Parnassus Books in Yarmouthport, MA, where amidst the creaking floors and old paper aroma, I found a 1954 edition of Rainer Maria Rilke's Letters to a Young Poet. 

In 1903, the 27-year-old Rilke replied to a letter from a teenaged poet looking for reassurance. He had little to give:

You ask whether your verses are good. You ask me. You have asked others before ... Now (since you have allowed me to advise you) I beg you to give up all that. You are looking outward, and that above all you should not do now. Nobody can counsel and help you, nobody. There is only one single way. Go into yourself. Search for the reason that bids you write; find out whether it is spreading out its roots in the deepest places of your heart ...

The teenaged poet, like so many writers, wanted to create something "good." But no, that's not quite right. He wanted to write a poem that would earn someone else's approval. Rilke, however, counsels him against this. Don't look outward, he says. Find why you need to write, and follow that vein of gold down into the heart of your own mountain.  Don't want something that you can't give yourself.

Buddhism argues that desire causes suffering, and it's hard to disagree. Just ask my four-year-old: when we don't receive what we want, it sure hurts. Like the time I cried myself to sleep over that rejection ... or that one ... or ... You get the idea. 

Most (all?) people are designed to want. And in many ways, this yearning drives us to accomplish. Ambition, the desire to have more than our current lot, fuels human striving to build, earn, and help. Ambition prompts writers to want to find an agent, publish a manuscript, sell books, earn awards, and always search for the next step.  It's awesome, and it gives us drive.

But that ambition comes at the cost of contentment. When we desire something that is not within our grasp, we suffer when we fall short.  I really want to have a story published in that prestigious magazine that would be such a good fit ... but they rejected it.  Ouch.  Like a door closed right in my face.  

I could decide not to care, right?  Not to want a story published in The Paris Review or my other favorites.  Yet to live without ambition may seem unthinkable. How can a writer avoid the tears spilled over another rejection, yet still care about her work?

Rilke suggests the answer, I think. Though he himself suffered, he also seemed to know that ultimately we write for ourselves. We may write to be read, but if we don't first write to please ourselves, to satisfy our desire to create art, we will founder on the shores of desire, longing for extrinsic gratification that can't ever satisfy us.

I've been thinking a lot about this balance, as I watch my inbox hoping for good news from a literary magazine, or as I enjoy the intrinsic pleasure of researching and writing my fiction. I see my friends struggle with it too: agonizing over silence from publishers, delighting in the temporary high of an acceptance. That's the delightful rollercoaster of life, and I wouldn't want to get off. I love the excitement that comes with desiring something out of reach, even if it comes at the cost of agonizing over what I've lost. But I want to keep an eye on that balance. And I hope those whom I love can too.

With Pitch Wars approaching, I know lots of writers will be hoping for something that statistically, many won't attain. That's ok. Enjoy the thrill of desire. But look inward, to the reason that bids you write. And love that.

Recommended Reading, May 2016

I've been spending most of my evening free time with a new man. He's been dead for four centuries, but what's that to stop a good love affair?

I'm determined to make it through Michel de Montaigne's Complete Essays this year, and I'm about halfway through.  Though it's taken me some four months to read these 600 pages, that's no reflection on the quality of the material (obviously).  I'm astonished and captivated by this French nobleman's ability to flay himself on the page.  He admits his lusts, his weaknesses, and his strengths.

What are we doing with our time, he argues, if not exploring ourselves first?  What can we know, if we don't know ourselves?  How can we understand what lays beyond our fingertips if we do not first come to terms with the limits of our grasp?

It's daunting stuff, even for a writer who spends a lot of time in her own head.  (Maybe particularly?  Do we writers doubt ourselves even more, for having explored those murky interior depths and gotten lost more often?)  So sometimes, it makes for slow reading.

But the point of this blog post is to recommend the other books I've been reading.  Here were some I loved:

The Tiger Queens by Stephanie Thornton.  This is a rich, nuanced book about some of the women surrounding Genghis Khan.  Totally transportive and convincing, plus heart-breaking.

The Sun and Other Stars by Brigid Pasulka.  You might think you're not interested in a soccer-obsessed town on the coast of Italy, but these charming characters will prove you utterly wrong.

Lovers at the Chameleon Club, Paris 1932 by Francine Prose.  The glamour and danger of pre-war and Nazi-occupied Paris will give you shivers in this beautiful novel by a true master.

Silver Sparrow by Tayari Jones.  Two half-sisters, one a secret daughter by a clandestine second marriage split this novel of love and yearning.  Just what does it mean to love, Jones asks, and how much will you sacrifice?