Do you hear that sound? It’s the sound of thousands of hipster parents grabbing their neck beards in horror, downing mason jars of locally distilled whiskey, unable to show their faces at the free-range parenting play date. “Why’d we name our son Atticus????”

Today, Go Set a Watchman, the much-anticipated pair to our beloved To Kill A Mockbird, hit the shelves. And the book, it turns out, well, it might make Boo Radley come out of hiding, simply to shake his head.

Apparently, in this new, but actually really old, book, Atticus Finch, the archetype of all that is good and holy for liberal-minded white people and first-year law students alike, turns out to be a racist. And not just any racist, blissfully unaware of his privilege to drive a car and not be pulled over or shot at, but a bitter, angry one. He's joined the KKK. He says things like, “Negroes down here are still in their childhood as a people.” He reads pamphlets titled, “The Black Plague.” It’s kind of like if Jean Valjean turned out to be a pedophile.

Thankfully, for all of us with white-guilt fueled outrage, Scout at least, basically equates her father’s ideas to Hitler. Phew!

But before our dearly held characters are decimated, let’s keep a couple things in mind.

My advice? Pretend in your mind that Harper Lee didn’t write this. Pretend the characters are wholly other than those you’ve come to name your children after. Sort of like how, if you pretend M. Night Shyamalan didn’t write and direct The Village, The Village is actually a pretty good movie, instead of you just wanting it to be The Sixth Sense all over again.

Take it on it's own merit, unclouded by the years of adulation heaped upon its predecessor. 

And try not to fixate on Atticus. These are Scout’s stories after all. And Scout, now Jean Louise, is a woman before her time, heart reaching for the not-yet second wave of feminism, that will still only pay her seventy cents on the dollar to a man, but where she’ll at least she be able to actually hold a job by her own merit. Until she wants to have a family. But let’s not go there right now.

Think of this story as an interesting exploration of the struggles with racism and sexism we still have today, now much more hidden, and perhaps because so, now much more insidious. Use it as a springboard for further change toward reconciliation, restitution, and justice. 

But do, please, stop naming your children Atticus. 

These are the ten best books *I read* in 2014. Not all of them were released in 2014. But really, who restricts their reading only to the year books are released? Missed The Poisonwood Bible back in '98? Too bad! You better finish up The Emperor Waltz, misogynistic though it is, then move on to something you actually want to read. 

Pft. 

So, here's *my* list of the ten books I enjoyed best this year. See how that's not as snazzy a blog title?

In no particular order:

I have been waiting nearly a year to post this. I have barely been able to contain myself. 

Yes, I am that much of a book dork.

Ready for some more dork? Generally I follow a fiction liturgy if you will, matching the type of book to the time of year —it's what spawned my "Books for all Seasons" posts— but last January, when I should have been picking up a dense classic, probably by a Russian, I could not help digging in to John Boyne's pitch-perfect gothic ghost story, This House is Haunted. I mean, c'mon, the cover alone is irresistible. Plus, I'm researching ghosts for my own book. So stop judging me, man.  

As with most good ghost stories, it's set in the mid-1800's in a middle of no-where English manor, aptly named Gaudlin Hall. Eliza, young, single, and stubborn in the face of fear, has taken a post as a governess (duh), for two small, precociously adorable children (double-duh) and arrives to find said children basically fending for themselves...quite well thank you very much.

There is the stock list of creepy characters: the strangely absent employer, the tight-lipped cook, the solicitor. And of course, the ghost. Or are there more than one? Mwaaa-ha-ha-haaaaa.

Forgetting for a moment Boyne's luminous writing, his Dickensonian voice, and his delicious descriptions, what hooked me on this book was Eliza's first night at Gaudlin Hall. Let me just say it involves drifting off to sleep only to find one's ankles being grabbed. Through the bed.

Excuse me while I change my bloomers. 

Yes it's very Turn of the Screw meets Jane Eyre. But it's how Boyne uses these archetypes to mold his own tale of terror that keeps one up at night, not just quaking, but also devouring each page.

Boyne's most well-known book is The Boy in the Stripped Pajamas, and he writes for both the young adult and adult market. 

Since reading This House is Haunted, Boyne has become one of my most beloved historical fiction authors. And, he's Irish. Which gives him cred just because. 

I've plowed through The House of Special Purpose, Next of Kin so far and, once the dust of my literary liturgy settles next spring, I'll be curled up with his newest, A History of Loneliness (Spring 2015 US, available now in the UK). Let's read it together, shall we? Don't worry, I'll remind you. (Read, harass you almost as much as I harass you about reading my books because I friggin' love this guy if you haven't figured that out already.)

Until then, get your jolly good Halloween spook on with This House is Haunted. 

And invest in some night lights.

Did you like The Red Tent? Uh, who didn't like The Red Tent? 
I actually re-read it when I was pregnant with my first child and having horrible "morning" sickness. I tried to find something - anything - in the Bible that might give me solace, or at least some insight into how the women of Biblical times handled their pregnancies. Look, I've got a fancy degree in theology so I know 99.9% of the Bible was written by men, but come on - not even anything on the Virgin Mary? There's more written about Joseph's lineage and angel dream than Mary's pregnancy or birth. "And she gave birth to a son and wrapped him in cloths."  Um, I'm pretty sure there was a bit more going on there. 

Frustrated, I turned to Anita Diamant's gripping tale of Dinah and all her aunties trudging through the Levant under the yoke of a patriarchal, fiercely holy tribe that would become Israel. 

In a similar way, so many (dare I say all? Probably an over-statement) stories of the life and times of Jesus are focused on the men involved. Never mind the fact that the women who followed Jesus risked so much more than their male counterparts to do so, never mind the fact that it was a woman who carried and bore him, women who stood by Him through his trial and execution and women who first discovered the empty tomb and first saw the risen Christ. 

Still, all we get is the male perspective. Well, no longer. 

In Margaret George's Mary Called Magdalene, we finally have a riveting, believable, heart wrenching, and spot on interpretation of one of the most fascinating women from the heart of Jesus' inner circle. Written with, as always, George's impeccable research, this immersive first person perspective will give even those who are not of the Christian faith a woman who's story, who's struggle, who's devotion to her beliefs and her family, who's woman-ness, transcends the centuries and the faiths. 

This book has been call "the diary of a soul" and for good reason. I hope you enjoy diving into a world two thousand years ago and finding how one woman's journey can resonate through the years like a tuning fork to your own. 

As with all my recommendations, I'd love to hear what you think of the book, so post a comment or send me an email. And in the meantime, Happy Passover, Easter and just plain spring to you all.

I'm one of those people who refuses to listen to Christmas music until the day after Thanksgiving. None of this, "let's celebrate Valentine's Day on the 16th this year." Valentine's Day is February 14th. End of story. 
So it makes sense that I like to read certain types of books at certain times of the year - gothic, spooky tales at Halloween, Dickensian heart-warmers at Christmas. There's something about following the calendar in my reading that helps me to not only savor, but mark each part of the year. 
So, I thought I'd start a series on my blog called "Books for All Seasons." For every season or major holiday in the year, if I've got a recommendation to put into your yearly rotation, I'll blog about it. 

I'd love for you to share what your seasonal favorites are too, so please comment away.

The inaugural book, is Blackberry Winter, by Seattle author Sarah Jio. Here's my review. Let me know what you think of the book, and even better, if you've got kind words to give, let Sarah know in a review of your own. Happy reading, friends!

Ms. Jio owes me. Big time. What does she owe me? 

SLEEP. 


Blackberry Winter is an "oh I'll just read the next section and then turn off the light...damn it! How is it 1am?" read.

It seems to be a trend in historical fiction to write from the perspective of a modern day woman whose life intertwines with a woman from history - take Tara Conklin's House Girl as another great example. Some historical fiction purists don't like this, and maybe they have a point, but the story comes to the author as it comes to the author and if you're looking only for strict historical fiction, or bodice ripping romance this book isn't for you. 

But if you want to snuggle up with some cocoa this winter and wrap yourself in an engrossing, heart-tugging and ultimately hopeful tale about two women a century apart struggling to find their way back to their purpose in life, back to love, back to reconciliation, then Blackberry Winter's for you. 

The pace is perfect (see sentence #3 above), the characters believable and insightfully drawn, and I challenge anyone to read about the teddy bear in the snow and not have your eyes wet with tears, mother or no. 

Jio's voice is like that of a good friend  - there is a carefully crafted casualness that feels almost like a conversation. And yet there's nothing amateurish about her style, just more a sense of familiarity that makes reading her books feel like you're spending a weekend getaway with an longtime and interesting friend. You want to be with her and her characters on this journey. 

It is my Book For All Seasons pick for January, and I hope it will be yours too!

For all you scurrying to finish holiday gifts, or just looking to relax with a good book during the long cold nights, here's my list of the 10 Books I Enjoyed in 2013

Why do these lists have to number ten? Oh well, I whilst jump on the band wagon, logic be damned. 
These aren't necessarily books that were published in 2013, just books I happened to read this year and enjoyed enough to want to tell people about. I hope you enjoy them too. 
Make an author's day and buy a book.

HAPPY HOLIDAYS

Heirs & Spares by Yours Truly
Shameless plug, shameless plug, shameless plug. But, I did read this book about 12 times in 2013 alone and only got truly sick of it by round 9...so that's saying something, right? 

The Gift of the Sea by Anne Morrow Lindbergh
If you are female and over the age, of let's just say, twenty-eight, this book is required reading. Multiple times. If you are male and interested in understanding the females in your life, this is also required reading. This is my third time through, as I read it every couple of years and it always, always, always has something to teach me about my life. 

One of the vows given during the exchange of rings in weddings from the 16th century, and hence, used in my book Heirs & Spares, is "with my body, I thee worship." It's not only a promise of sexual fulfillment, but also an act of submitting all of oneself — heart, mind, body. There are many acts of laying down our bodies and the following guest blog post celebrates them all.

I often give a self-satisfied snort on Facebook when someone says "I cried reading this." Not because I'm not a cryer (talking puppies try to sell me toilet paper? yeah.), but sometimes I think the sharing on Facebook can be overwrought. So I took up the challenge. About half-way through, my eyes were too blurred to see.

Because what Mary shares below is not simply the experience of so many, but shows a glimpse of a way towards hope, as this thirty-something body becomes obsolete to cultural ideals of beauty.

So thank you Mary (and husband Steve for the original posting here: http://www.stevewiens.com/2013/03/06/these-are-the-lines-of-a-story/).

My own tiger-attack looking stretch marks and belly dough salute you!


These are the Lines of a Story:

by Mary Martin Wiens

Throughout my twenties and thirties, I was able to gain and lose pounds with the best of them. But, I was always proud that the front part of my belly stayed flat and muscled…a nod to the thousands of sit ups I did as a gymnast when I was a girl. But, having babies, particularly the twins, changed my flat belly forever. Like someone who has lost a hundred pounds, the skin does not go back again. My stomach hangs low. I can gather my belly in my hands, moving and shaping it like the sweetbread dough I make with my mother at Christmas. And then there are the stretch marks covering the whole front of my midsection. They are a hundred rivulets of red rain streaming down a window, pooling at the sill of my C-section scar in half-inch wide scars that look, to me, like burns. 

When I blow dry my hair after a shower, I look at my body in the mirror, and the familiar internal conversation begins. First there is the still present feeling of surprise. That’s me? Then comes the uncontrollable feeling of disgust constricting my throat. But on its heels the thought: wait a minute, these scars are sacred, they represent one of the most significant stories within my story, something I don’t want to forget, and there, right there is evidence of my own rebirth into something more. But I hardly take a breath before my hands are moving to my stomach to stretch it out flat and make it look like a long-gone me. If I could just change this one part…

About 6 months ago, a moment of pure grace happened to me in the middle of one of these internal push-pulls. I was drying my hair and my 3-year-old son, Ben, walked into the bathroom. He played with the lipsticks in the drawer, he asked about my eye make-up remover, and then he looked at me appraisingly and said, “Your belly is funny.” It all began to rise in me: the initial feelings of body shame so deeply programmed in me by my culture, the thoughts I want to feel about the sacredness of my body, and a memory of playing in the leaves with Steve and the boys last fall. We were tickling and rolling in the leaves and one of the boys tickles me and says, “Daddy’s belly is hard and yours is squishy.”  “Yes,” I said, “That is right.” But, I had thought: I don’t think I want to play tickle again.

This time, my 3-year-old son is standing in front of me, saying, “Your belly is funny,” and the magic happens. I stood in a place where all the times of my life were present—past, future, and this boy standing in front of me now. Images and sensations of those I love flashed through my mind. I experienced the warmth of Steve’s broad back against mine in bed and the pleasure of recognizing his gait 200 hundred yards before his face comes into focus. I saw the scar under my father’s eye where the horse kicked him. I saw the reading glasses perched on my sister’s distinct elegant English nose as she holds her pen in her long straight fingers making bold careful shapes. And, I saw my own mother putting on make-up after a shower with a towel wrapped around her head while I played withher lipsticks. The curve of her hips, the dough of her soft belly and the silken freckles and cream tone of her skin is beautiful beyond measure. And I understood something.

We journey from a seed in our mother’s womb until we are planted in the grave with ever-changing bodies. Time scratches out its passage across my looks and the looks of all those I love. All our lives, our bodies manifest evidence of an existence marked by gains and losses. We gain and lose pounds, muscle, bruises, teeth, and hair. We lose elasticity and gain wrinkles. We gain scars. Our bodies process and carry our experiences, not without complaint, but with an unfailing perseverance that is worthy of both gratitude and honor. And one of the very great privileges of this life is to cherish the bodies of those I love through all their gains and losses for as long as I get to have them. We do not get to have those we love forever.  In that final losing, every turn of the head and expression of the face becomes poignantly precious.  So, may I have eyes to see them now.

My sister, who hates finding hair in her sink, in her food, on her body to an almost phobic degree told me a story from the time she walked her dear friend through the months of a fast moving terminal cancer. When the time came for her friend to get her last haircut, my sister was there. She stood close, touching her friend’s shoulders and head, catching strands of falling hair in her hands, letting it lay all over her clothes. Goodbye beautiful hair that I have loved on the head of my dear friend. I will not miss this moment.

So, in the moment when Ben stood in front of me and the magic happened, I spoke not what I should, not what I wished to believe, but what I deeply felt for once to be true. “Is my belly kind of squishy? Kind of soft?” I ask. “Yes!” he says. “Do you see these red roads on my belly? Are you curious about those?” I ask. “Yes!” he says. “Do you want to know what those feel like?”  I ask. “Yes!” he says. Then I take his little finger and trace it along one of my stretch marks and ask, “Do you know what these are?” “No.” he says. “These are the lines of a story. Do you know what the story is about?” “What?” he asks.  “These lines tell the story of Isaac and Ben and Elijah. They tell about how you grew inside me and how I stretched to make room for you because I was so glad you would be my boy. Aren’t they beautiful?” “Yes!” he answered.

The healing in this story is not that I have wholly accepted my body or that I will never again attempt to change it. It is that now when rejection rises in me against my body—how it looks, how it feels—I have a fuller answer. I can call up the sounds, smells, movements, scars, wrinkles, and dimples of my dear ones and look at myself through the lens of that incomparable beauty. This gives me access to a programming deeper than my culture that reminds me that my being here in this world in a body matters. The touch of my hand on a shoulder, my hug, the soothing sound of my voice, and the warmth in my eyes are irreplaceable to those who carry me in their hearts. Our physical presence here matters, no matter its shape.

And so, sweet Ben, my desire for you goes far beyond that which I have caught myself striving for in the looking glass. Here it is: May you have the great gift of intimately knowing and loving the body of another through all the changes of life and having your body known and loved from head to toe, in return. And someday, when you stand in front of the mirror with your chosen one, and she is trying to lift her breasts back into place…or you are looking in the mirror and trying to flatten your own belly into a younger shape…remember what I am teaching you now. It is the stories and the cherishing that make us beautiful. May you catch each falling moment in your hands and kiss it as it goes.