Tiny mosses, big theory

The Signature of All Things

I’m not a big Elizabeth Gilbert fan. I found her famous memoir, Eat, Pray, Love annoyingly self-involved. I liked the eating part in Italy, the guru/praying section in India less so, and the love part in Indonesia too gushing. I turned my nose up at her next book, Committed: A Skeptic Makes Peace with Marriage, which detailed her capitulation to that institution.

So, I’m not sure why I decided to read Gilbert’s latest book, The Signature of All Things. But I did and I’m glad. It’s a sprawling (599 pages) novel that could have benefited from editing and trimming. But maybe not. After all, it addresses the whole of the known physical world and our place in it.

The core story follows the education and career of a 19th century botanist, Alma Whittaker. Born into wealth and a family that values discipline and learning over love and compassion, Alma develops her natural gift as a scientist, completely self-taught. Ungainly and unattractive, she relies on her considerable intelligence to make her way in the world.

And does she ever make her way. First, she explores her immediate home environment, learning about mosses in a deep and profound way. Then, she travels from her sheltered home in Philadelphia to Tahiti—this time seeking enlightenment about her late husband rather than exploring the natural world. But the natural world persists in calling to her in mysterious ways.

Over time, Alma develops a theory of evolution, very nearly mirroring Charles Darwin’s. But she grapples with a central weakness in her theory, so refuses to publish her views. Also, she is a woman and a relative unknown in the late 1800s scientific world—so who would listen to her anyway?

For me, the most fascinating part of this book was exploring the ways Alma develops her theory and makes peace with the reality that she will never be acknowledged for it. And the sections describing her passion for mosses and other elements of the physical world are beautiful. The book’s weakness? At times, too much exposition, and at other times, too much Gothic heavy breathing.

Still, Gilbert has given us a rich portrait of a female scientist who persists in her quest for knowledge and a rich life of the mind.

The ties that bind

A disclaimer: I am prejudiced in favor of this book—because it’s written by my brother, Mike Cavender.

Nonetheless, it’s a good book and worth your attention.

Some back story. Mike began writing this book some eight years ago. After the finishing the first draft, he submitted it to numerous agents. The usual form rejection letters followed. But he is a determined guy and a smart one. So, he started revising. And learning more about the craft of fiction at workshops, most notably those taught by Ron Rash, Western North Carolina poet and novelist. Mike showed various revised drafts to friends, relatives, and professional editors. He was open to reasonable critiques and worked hard to polish and strengthen his story.

This year, after finishing the fifth draft, he was about ready to start submitting to agents again. Then, he started thinking about how old he was (68) and decided he didn’t want to waste any more time waiting to hear from agents. So, he resolved to self-publish, and decided to use the Amazon platform, Create Space.Yesterday, Mike held in his hands the hard copy of his novel, Revenge on the Fly. Such a sweet moment.

The book traces  a decades-long arc of family greed and betrayal. At the story’s heart is a profound conflict about the value of pristine land and old-growth forest in the Appalachians and the hunger of developers for new land. (For many years, Mike and his wife Paulette lived in the Western North Carolina where Mike was executive director of the Highland-Cashiers Land Trust—so he knows these issues well.) Some of the novel’s best writing evokes the beauty and mystery of the mountains, and the fly-fishing themes are described with wit and authenticity (Mike was a fly-fishing guide for s few years, too.)

So, years of toil and commitment to improving the book—now, it’s here. It’s just been listed on Amazon, and the Kindle version should be up in a couple of weeks.

http://www.amazon.com/Revenge-Fly-Michael-Cavender/dp/1484915100/ref=sr_1_3?ie=UTF8&qid=1384701121&sr=8-3&keywords=michael+cavender

As Ron Rash says on the cover blurb, “Revenge on the Fly is a beautiful meditation on the ties that bind us to family and place.”  

Unraveling a little boy's identity

(I found this one of the more compelling stories I've read in recent years, and it was a pleasure to review. It is reprinted with permission from Our State magazine.)

A Case for Solomon

By Tal McThenia and Margaret Dunbar Cutright. Free Press, a division of Simon and Schuster, 2012. 436 pages, hardback, $26.99.

          It seemed a simple and redemptive story—at first.

In 1912, a 4-year-old child wandered away from a family gathering and vanished in the Louisiana swampland. At first, the little boy, Bobby Dunbar, was feared drowned or eaten by alligators, but his parents soon came to believe that he was abducted. Fueled more by hope than any evidence of kidnapping, the family conducted an aggressive campaign to find Bobby, and, in the process, galvanized public sympathy. After 8 months, Bobby was found, dirty but safe, in the company of an itinerant tinker. He and his parents, Lessie and Percy Dunbar, were reunited and the public rejoiced.

            But wait: the story is not so simple. Another woman surfaced, and Julia Anderson claimed that the child was her son Bruce, taken from her North Carolina home months earlier by an acquaintance.

            A protracted battle ensued, fought in the courts and—more insidiously—in the court of public opinion.  Newspapers battling for circulation capitalized on the story’s conflict and emotion. Aggressive reporters invaded the Dunbar’s home, insisting on interviewing the parents and even little Bobby, and they converged on and bullied Julia when she traveled to Louisiana to see the child she believed was hers. Like our present-day paparazzi, the yellow journalists harassed and intimidated the families, the children, and witnesses. Increasingly, the real truth became mired in competing versions of reality.

            This historically accurate account reads like both a thriller and a tragedy. The meticulous research anchors the story and brings alive the century-old events through vivid description. Margaret Dunbar Cutright, a North Carolinian and granddaughter of Bobby Dunbar, conducted the early research into family documents. Co-author Tal McThenia initially produced the story as a segment for the NPR radio show, This American Life; subsequently, the two teamed up to write this book.

            The central question—who is the child—Bobby Dunbar or Bruce Anderson?—is not resolved until almost a century after the original disappearance. In the intervening years, the parents and the child grapple with pain, loss, and haunting questions of identity. But ultimately, there is redemption and healing. Not a simple story, but a wondrous one.

(You can download the NPR story, The Ghost of Bobby Dunbar, from the archives of This American Life:

http://www.thisamericanlife.org/radio-archives/episode/352/the-ghost-of-bobby-dunbar)

Tending to Elizabeth Bennet's petticoats

I’ve always imagined that, in a previous life, I was born a servant. When I’ve occasionally visited grand houses, I’m more drawn to the downstairs than to the sumptuous upstairs. For example, I vastly prefer the below-stairs “butler’s tour” at the Biltmore House in Asheville to viewing the upstairs of the great house. I was intrigued to learn that Biltmore had one of the country’s first electric washing machines and moisture extractors—a must to handle all the linens of visitors to the 250-room mansion—and I was charmed by the idea of an entire room, albeit tiny, devoted to making pastry.

So, the notion of Longbourn appealed to me immediately. And the novel by British writer Jo Baker didn’t disappoint.

Baker imagines the life and times of the staff who serve the fictional Bennet family of Pride and Prejudice fame. There’s Mrs. Hill, the housekeeper and main attendant to the flighty Mrs. Bennet, who refers to her simply as “Hill.” Hill’s husband combines duties of carriage driver and butler. Then, there are two maids, rescued from a life as orphans, the naïve Polly and Sarah, the book’s heroine.

Baker describes the backbreaking, soul-stealing work required of these servants to keep even a modestly middle-class family like the Bennets’ functioning. Baker’s serious research into domestic demands of the early-19th century households gives the story a convincing authenticity. She provides staggering details about, for example, the series of grinding tasks required just to do one day’s laundry. (No electric washing machine here…) London’s Guardian newspaper notes: “…the miseries of washday present a whole new perspective on Elizabeth's determination to tramp across muddy fields to Netherfield to be with Jane ("If Elizabeth had the washing of her own petticoats, Sarah often thought, she'd most likely be a sight more careful with them")

But all is not chilblains and 18-hour workdays below stairs. The staff share bonds of affection, and romance beckons, once a mysterious stranger joins the household.  Long-held secrets complicate the moral compass of some characters, and courage and integrity characterize others.

In all, Longbourn is a satisfying read. It doesn’t pander and doesn’t sentimentalize. Rather, it’s a fresh re-imagining of Jane Austen’s world where the downstairs world is every bit as fascinating as the lives of Elizabeth and Mr. Darcy.

Jane Austen at WInchester

Two days after Jane Austen died on July 18, 1817, her sister Cassandra wrote to a relative “…her dear remains are to be deposited in the Cathedral…it is a satisfaction to me to think that they are to lie in a Building she admired so much…”

That “Building” was the great Winchester Cathedral where, today, visitors can pay homage to Austen, as well as admire the stunning nave and chantry chapels. A large ledger stone set in the floor in the north aisle of the nave marks the place where Austen is buried. The inscription, probably written by her brother Henry, reflects “the blended voices of a bereaved Christian family,” surmises English scholar Michael Wheeler, who wrote a slender booklet, Jane Austen and Winchester Cathedral a decade ago.

The inscription attests to Jane Austen’s character, “sweetness of her temper and the extraordinary endowments of her mind.” However, many visitors are surprised—as I was when I visited Winchester earlier this month—to see no mention of her literary fame on her gravestone.

At the time of her death at 41 (probably caused by Addison’s disease or cancer), Austen had published Sense and Sensibility, Pride and Prejudice, Mansfield Park, and Emma; she was a recognized author, if not the acclaimed literary giant she later came to be considered. But Wheeler explains that many writers’ memorial stones did not mention their profession (Swift and Dickens, for example) at that time, and also argues that her spiritual gifts, not her worldly achievements were the focus of her tribute. Later additions to the area around her memorial stone—a brass plaque on the adjacent wall and a memorial window—do acknowledge her literary importance. The Cathedral also has erected a series of posters giving highlights of the author’s life, including her last days of illness in Winchester.

Austen probably was accorded burial in Winchester Cathedral, home also to the remains of Saxon kings and saints, because of her family connections, Wheeler speculates. It is known that her funeral took place in the early morning, to avoid conflict with morning prayer. The modest funeral party included her three brothers and a nephew, but not her beloved sister Cassandra.

 “…Women were not expected to attend funerals,” Wheeler remarks.

Without words

Well, at least, without many of them…

I was reminded the other day of a haunting movie I saw this fall: Museum Hours. It is a small, quiet film. There’s some dialogue between the two main actors—a guard at the Kunsthistorisches Art Museum in Vienna and a visiting Canadian woman—but mostly, the film is about looking. Much of it is set within the walls of the museum, the camera panning over famous paintings, pausing, giving us a chance to really see. And, in some cases, to almost enter the life of the paintings, especially the Brueghels.

Generally, I’m a word person. I read a lot, write some. Increasingly, though, I am drawn to the visual world, a world where images instead of words speak to me. Museum Hours gently pulls us into the world of images—and shows, that to have an impact, you can speak softly. Or not at all.

My thanks to British writer John Harvey whose recent blog post reminded me about this lovely little film. Perhaps best known in this country as an outstanding crime writer, Harvey is also a poet, jazz aficionado, and art lover. His blog (http://mellotone70up.wordpress.com) ranges widely and is always worth following, often combining words and images in an appealing way.

Who's your favorite author?

That’s not a theoretical question for me these days.

A maddening glitch occurred when I recently updated my iPhone and entered my password information for one of two email accounts. The email works just fine for the phone (and for my iPad—am I too Mac-happy?), but I lost connectivity (as they say) on my main computer, the iMac.

Basically, I kept getting the message that I was entering the wrong password. I wasn’t, but who’s going to argue with a computer?

The situation got more frustrating when I asked to have my password sent to me. The “security question” was—you guessed it—Who’s your favorite author?

Good grief! Who knows?

I’ve read a gazillion books over my lifetime, loved many, liked a lot more. But which, of all the possible authors, was my favorite?

I’m pretty compulsive about keeping a list of my passwords, but never bothered to jot down answers to security questions. Dumb, I know.

So, I tried. First, Trollope. No dice. (Maybe if the security question had been “Who’s your favorite 19th century author?”)

Next, I tried Harper Lee (for family reasons). Nothing.

At this point, I realized that guessing my “favorite author” was an exercise in futility. So I gave up and now am dreading the hours-long call to so-called help desk so I can be assigned a new password.

In the meantime, I’m using my alternate email address and left to ponder, who, really is my favorite author? Have I failed him/her by failing to remember? Is it even possible to name a single favorite?

Ruminations aside, I vow to write down answers to my security questions from now on. And I’m hoping I can remember where I put that piece of paper….

The mystery of reading

My daughter Rachel recently recounted this anecdote about her son Henry. He’s crazy about books, has always loved being read to, always asks for more at bedtime, enjoys going to the library and picking out new books every week.

         But, at 5 ½ years and just beginning kindergarten, Henry is not reading on his own yet.

         Or so we thought.

         Last week, he pulled out a copy of Walker Percy’s The Moviegoer from their living room bookshelf. He started walking around the house with the book open, to all intents “reading” it. The first night, he took the book to bed, curled up with it, still “reading.”

         The next night, Rachel peeked in his room to make sure he was asleep—there he was, under his blanket with his flashlight "reading" The Moviegoer again.

         Who can explain this attraction? The Moviegoer is not exactly what you’d choose for a first book to read independently! Certainly, it lacks the rhyming and easy words of, say, The Cat in the Hat. If Henry is pretending to read, why this book? Was it just a random choice? The jacket cover is not especially enticing, so that’s not likely the appeal.

         Rachel and I want to ask him about his reading adventure—in a way. In another way, we like having this mysterious story unfold as it will...

         But we’ll really begin to wonder if he starts on Ulysses next!

Under the Skin

 Vicki Lane captures the atmosphere and history of remote mountain areas in her mystery series featuring amateur sleuth, Elizabeth Goodweather. The review below, first printed in Our State magazine, features her book, Under the Skin.

**

One quote that precedes Vicki Lane’s latest novel suggests the book’s subtle theme: “A Sister can be seen as someone who is both ourselves and very much not ourselves — a special kind of double,” Toni Morrison says.

The two sisters who shape this story couldn’t be more different. Elizabeth Goodweather is a sensible, hard-working woman who operates an herb business from her Appalachian farm. By contrast, her sister, Gloria, is a city girl, a “ditz in high heels, a poster child for conspicuous consumption.”

Claiming that her husband (her fourth) wants to murder her, Gloria flees her Florida home and charges into Elizabeth’s life seeking sanctuary. The timing couldn’t be worse. Elizabeth is balancing the demands of her farm with those of her upcoming wedding to Phillip Hawkins. And even under the best circumstances, she and Gloria have a prickly relationship.

Gloria swans around the Appalachian farmhouse in full makeup and negligee, complaining about the “primitive” conditions (no dishwasher or cable TV). Acknowledging that Gloria brings out her “whiny inner child,” Elizabeth grits her teeth and tries to sympathize with her sister, but she wonders if the murder plot is just a way to gain attention. Meanwhile, Elizabeth wrestles with her nagging doubts about Phillip’s past and his connection to her late husband.

Overall, the question is whether people are who they seem to be. The answer unspools in surprising ways. Gloria reveals unpredictable virtues of generosity and courage, and Elizabeth discovers her own inner sybarite. A parallel story, set in the late 1880s, tells of two other sisters who produce séances to fleece innocent people in the mountain resort of Hot Springs. The two story lines intersect when the modern-day sisters attend a seminar at that same resort.

Lane’s brisk narrative draws the reader along, and she provides vivid details of mountain farm life. (Lane lives and works on her own small farm in Madison County.) Best of all, her character development gives rich layering to this tale of different sisters — who are, in the end, sisters under the skin.

-- Katie Baer

“Our State Magazine, December 2012, reprinted with permission”

Mysteries, North Carolina style

    I occasionally review books for the monthly magazine, Our State: North Carolina. As most of my blog readers aren't North Carolina residents, I thought it might be worth re-printing a couple of recent reviews--as it happens, both are mysteries set in North Carolina and both convey a strong sense of place.
    The first review, reprinted here, is is an appreciation of Margaret Maron's latest novel. Maron captures the sense of the Piedmont region, both the fast-disappearing rural areas and urban/suburban sprawl. Her mysteries are wonderful entertainments that also address social issues.
    The next review will focus on the Western part of the state and Vicki Lane's evocative stories of mayhem in the mountains.
    Both reviews are reprinted with permission.

The Buzzard Table

By Margaret Maron

The opening scene in Margaret Maron’s latest mystery may startle fans expecting a North Carolina setting. The preface of The Buzzard Table describes a tense scene in a Somali hut where two journalists are held hostage. Not to worry — by the first chapter, we’re back in Colleton County, North Carolina, home to Judge Deborah Knott and her family. Part of the pleasure of this novel is discovering the links between the Middle Eastern adventure and Deborah’s domestic life.

Multiple plots emerge and tantalize the reader. An ornithologist shows up, claiming to be a relative of a local grand dame. A real estate agent is murdered, and a young boy is shot. An airfield may be the site for rendition flights carrying prisoners out of Guantánamo Bay.

Helping untangle these mysteries is Deborah’s husband, Deputy Sheriff Dwight Bryant, and her cousin, detective Lt. Sigrid Harald. Dwight and Deborah met Sigrid during their honeymoon in Maron’s previous book Three-Day Town. Now their relationship deepens as Sigrid returns to Colleton County to visit her ailing grandmother.

Family and community always figure in Maron’s stories. In The Buzzard Table, Deborah’s relationship with her stepson, Cal, takes center stage as she and Dwight explore whether she should officially adopt him. Will that cement his place in the family? Or is it premature?

Maron is at the top of her form, engaging readers with wit, complex plots, social commentary, and moving depictions of family ties.

--Katie Baer

"Our State magazine, April 2013, reprinted with permission."

Mysterious reading

Mysteries are my weakness. I’m a student and fan of the genre. I like most of the sub-genres, from hard-boiled to police procedural to psychological thrillers. (Cutesy “cozies” generally don’t do it for me.) The authors that make my short list include John Harvey, Peter Robinson, Susan Hill, P.D. James, Deborah Crombie, Laura Lippman, George Pelacanos, Janwillem van der Wettering, Georges Simenon—oops, this is growing way beyond a short list.

But you can see that my tastes are eclectic, catholic, even. And a mystery maven is always happy to discover new authors. Recent reads include three worth recommending.

The first is Cuckoo’s Calling by “Robert Galbraith.”  You’d have to be living in a cave not to have heard all the hoop-de-doo about the author, revealed to be J. K. Rowling of Harry Potter fame. After her identity was revealed, the book shot up to the top of bestseller lists, prompting some readers and reviewers to suspect the whole thing was a publicity stunt. And a mighty smart one, at that. Rowling denies any such promotional skullduggery, insisting that she just wanted to give the book, her first mystery, a chance to stand on its own, without the burden of expectations associated with her name.

Whatever the authorial hoopla, what about the book? I liked it very much, to my surprise—as I’m among the perhaps nine people in the world who could never appreciate the Harry Potter series. First, the protagonist has one of the best names ever: Cormoran Strike. He is also an unlikely hero-sleuth. He is shambling, broke, practically homeless, plagued by a missing leg and persistent memories of fighting in the desert of the Middle East.

But Strike is smart and persistent and generous-hearted. The plot almost doesn’t matter—it’s convoluted and kind of silly and any devotee of mysteries could identify the killer within the first third of the book. The reason to read Cuckoo’s Calling is to meet and learn to appreciate Cormoran Strike and his sidekick secretary, Robin Ellacott.  I hope Rowling brings the pair back.

S. J. Bolton is an author new to me, though she’s certainly been around for a good while, so I don’t know how I missed her. She’s a British crime writer who specialties in psychological mysteries—think, Ruth Rendell—and has racked up all sorts of awards, including a CWA Gold Dagger. Dead Scared is her fifth novel and tells a strange tale of suicides among Cambridge undergraduates. But are they really suicides? Or are the victims driven to kill themselves as a result of a demonically inventive campaign? A young detective, Lacey Flint—fearless but carrying her own psychological scars—agrees to go undercover to find out. Needless to say, she soon becomes a target of the puppet masters. Some of the plot twists beggar belief, but Bolton’s sure hand with creating tension makes this a book that’s hard to put down.

The Wrong Girl by Hank Phillippi Ryan weaves multiple plots lines around the theme of the foster care and adoption systems gone wrong. Serious social criticism is made palatable by a fast-paced story. The original question—what happens if an adopted child and the biological mother reunite but then suspect that they are mismatched? —gets magnified into ancillary issues. The amateur sleuth, newspaper reporter Jane Ryland, is assigned to cover a murder that may be connected to an adoption scandal. Of course, she can’t stop at one investigation, and follows leads all over Boston, often at a dizzying pace.  Ryan’s background as an Emmy-winning investigative television reporter at Boston’s NBC affiliate helps ground the story and makes the reporter-heroine’s frenetic quest seem realistic. This mystery, the second in a series, will be released in early September.

This Book

I am so conflicted about what to say about This Town.

You’ve probably heard about it: the dishy tell-all book about Washington’s inner workings, a book whose author brings impeccable credentials to the task. He is Mark Leibovich, chief national correspondent for The New York Times Magazine. Formerly, he was the newspaper’s chief national political correspondent, and also worked for the Washington Post.

As you’d expect, Leibovich has had a front-row seat to the nation’s capitol follies. And therein lies the delicious, guilty pleasure of reading “this” book. There’s gossip, hilarious profiles of movers and shakers, a jaded but exuberant perspective on what goes on in DC.

His writing is sharp and riotously funny. Many passages beg to be read aloud. For example, this description of a Senator, at journalist Tim Russert’s funeral, trying to look—well, funereal: “[he] walks slowly into the church and adheres to the distinctive code of posture at the fancy-pants funeral: head bowed, conspicuously biting the lips, squinting extra hard for the full telegenic grief effect.”

Leibovich brings his insider’s eye and dark humor to funerals, parties, political conventions, lunch meetings, and other assorted settings. There’s often a gleeful tone at skewering the bloviating politicians, journalists, lobbyists, and assorted hangers-on. Any reader with curiosity about what really goes on inside the Beltway will enjoy the author’s ringside seat.

But—here’s the thing. When Leibovich looks under the rocks, he sees and write about serious dysfunction in national politics—creepy trends that will send your cynic-o-meter soaring. His main point is not just that politicians have big egos—we knew that—it’s that their motives are hopelessly intertwined with the interests of lobbying firms. The “formers” (former Congressmen, former White House staffers, etc) parlay their access to influence by joining the big K street firms offering fat salaries. Everyone, ultimately, is trying to suck up to someone in power. Journalists are not immune. It seems to be one big, snarled ball of back scratching and self-interest.

Depressed yet? Well, I was, as I read this book. So, I’m conflicted about whether to recommend it. Probably, I do. It’s wonderfully well written and offers a reasoned critique of DC culture. But be prepared to feel hopeless about the system in “this town.” Don’t say I didn’t warn you!

Gem in the Piedmont

This article was originally published in the November/December 2012 issue of Chapel Hill Magazine. Some readers of this blog may have seen the original article; I’m reprinting it here for those who didn’t see the original and would enjoy knowing about the special publishing house in my neck of the woods. -- KB

The Little Publishing Company That Could

BY KATIE BAER

Thirty years ago, an unlikely story began to unfold with the launch of Algonquin Books of Chapel Hill. Co-founded by Louis Rubin and Shannon Ravenel, the upstart literary press sought exceptional writers, many of them Southern. Almost immediately, Algonquin scored critical success with books from the likes of Jill McCorkle, Clyde Edgerton, Kaye Gibbons and Larry Brown.

Managing the fledgling company was a labor of love. Rubin and Ravenel were the only full-timers – and didn’t draw salaries for the first six years. The original editorial office was in a shack in the back of Rubin’s home on Gimghoul Road. Later, they moved to an office, then a small mill house in Carrboro. The staff, small and congenial, brought their dogs to work.

A Southern Accent

Fast-forward three decades: Algonquin, which was acquired by Workman Publishing Company in 1989, now occupies an entire floor of a low-rise building in a leafy office park off Weaver Dairy Road and employs 15 in Chapel Hill. The sales staff is located in New York.

Alas, no dogs roam the office these days. Otherwise, many of the Algonquin’s special qualities persist. Editors select a modest number of manuscripts – about 15 to 20 per year – both fiction and nonfiction, to publish and strongly support so that they may succeed in a highly competitive marketplace.  Algonquin authors like McCorkle, Lee Smith and Robert Morgan continue to provide the press with a Southern accent. But the company has evolved from being a regional publisher to one of national stature. Water for Elephants by Sara Gruen was a breakout bestseller – made into a movie starring Reese Witherspoon and Robert Pattinson – and other books have won commercial, as well as critical, success.

An Improbable Venture

Algonquin will mark its 30th anniversary in the coming year with a series of special events. It also will honor its origins by purchasing back the paperback rights to some of its earliest titles – like Ellen Foster by Kaye Gibbons, Raney by Clyde Edgerton, Big Fish by Daniel Wallace and How the Garcia Girls Lost Their Accents and In the Time of Butterflies by Julia Alvarez – and reissuing them with new covers and reading guide material. “We want to celebrate the authors who helped make us who we are,” says Ina Stern, associate publisher and a member of the editorial board.

Also on tap for 2013: Algonquin will publish new novels by Jill McCorkle, Lee Smith and Robert Morgan. And another new venture will be the debut of a line of titles for young readers, aimed at middle and high schoolers.

In the beginning, Rubin and Ravenel didn’t imagine enormous commercial success; they just wanted to help young writers get a toehold in the publishing world. Rubin hatched the idea for a Chapel Hill-based company after he participated in an academic panel on Southern writing in New York and realized that young Southern writers had trouble getting published without industry connections.

 “I thought, ‘Why not start a publishing company to help young writers launch their careers?’” Rubin recalls. So he contacted Ravenel, a former student of his at Hollins University, to ask if she was interested.  She said yes right away. Using their personal funds and some help from a few investors, they started Algonquin Books, publishing their first list of four books in 1983. (They decided to call the company Algonquin (the name of Rubin’s boat) after their original idea for a name – Bright Leaf Publishing – struck some as conjuring up images of the tobacco industry.)

Both co-founders had the literary background to tackle such an improbable venture.  A distinguished writer, editor and teacher, Rubin taught for 22 years in UNC’s English department, following 10 years at Hollins. Encyclopedia Virginia describes him as “perhaps the person most responsible for the emergence of Southern literature as a field of scholarly inquiry.” Ravenel’s credentials were impressive, too: She had worked as an editor at Houghton Mifflin publishers and was for 20 years the series editor of the annual anthology, Best American Short Stories.

Many of the early authors had been Rubin’s students and friends and all benefited from his encouragement. McCorkle was one of those. “I was lucky to have been around in those early years and to have known Louis,” she says. “He has a gift of nurturing young writers and helping them achieve success with their careers.” Algonquin published her two first novels simultaneously in 1984 – a publishing milestone – and both were well reviewed in The New York Times.

While Algonquin was building its reputation for finding and publishing literary work by emerging young authors, the business side faced challenges. By 1989, it was clear that help was needed, so Rubin and Ravenel went to New York to talk business with major publishing houses. In the end, Algonquin was bought by Workman, a large, independent publisher best known for nonfiction and calendars.

Making an Imprint

From the beginning, Workman was committed to maintaining the character of the company while making it stronger, says publisher Elisabeth Scharlatt. “We could maintain the quality of the books, while providing more muscle in terms of marketing and sales.”  Workman also made the important decision to keep Algonquin in Chapel Hill. “We have the best of both worlds,” Scharlatt acknowledges, “with a foot in North Carolina and a foot in New York.”

Rubin retired in 1991. Ravenel stepped away from her full-time role as editorial director in 2001 and now oversees books for Algonquin under her own imprint, working with authors like Julia Alvarez, Robert Morgan, Smith and McCorkle. The marketing focus began to encompass social media and online features to engage readers, as well as continuing to work with independent bookstores, a strategy that has been vital from the early days. The scope of books published broadened to a larger national canvass.

But the essentials remain. Algonquin is selective, but it supports its relatively few titles with vigor. “We are known for getting behind all the books we publish with all our marketing experience and sales clout,” says Stern.

And she and the editors are always seeking the highest quality when they review manuscripts. “We are looking for an original voice,” she says. “Many themes are similar, and so much depends on the way the story is told and the energy in the writing.”

Among Stern’s favorite Algonquin titles? One is Life After Life by McCorkle, her first novel in 17 years, which will appear in the spring. Although Algonquin has published many of McCorkle’s short story collections over the past three decades, her new novel is a major cause for celebration. “It’s the best thing she’s ever written,” enthuses Stern.

And so, with its enduring constants of excellent writing and a home in Chapel Hill, it seems that the best is yet to come for the little publishing house that could.  

Reprinted with permission from Chapel Hill Magazine

Mixed messages

            Most people I know wouldn’t dream of stepping on a plane without reading material for the flight. In the dark ages, that meant stuffing paperbacks in your carry-on; for many of us, this approach still works. Increasingly, of course, many travelers rely on e-readers for their convenience and ability to download and store untold numbers of books and other media.

            Two recent developments speak to these dual approaches to reading on the go.

            An FAA working group is considering relaxing the ban on portable electronic devices during takeoff and landing, according to The New York Times (June 21, 2013). The group is expected to endorse wider passengers’ use of tablets—which seems only fair, as pilots now routinely use an iPad in lieu of paper navigation guides in the cockpit.

            So what does this mean to you? An extra few minutes to finish that chapter or find out who-dun-it. Makes sense, assuming no safety hazard is involved.

            But at least one airline is celebrating and encouraging reading “real” books.

            Qantas, Australia’s largest airline, now offers a customized set of 10 paperbacks for its Platinum-level frequent flyers. The collection, according (again) to The New York Times, “includes thriller, satire, nonfiction, history, and romance titles designed to be read from start to finish during routes that last from one and a half to close to 24 hours.”

            What a great idea! Now, if the airlines would also consider that non-elite class passengers love to read, too…

            

The Poodles

The poodles           

Trying to write about The Broken Shore by Peter Temple frustrates me. The Australian mystery drove me crazy at the end, with too many names, too many pile-ups of events and revealed tales of past horror. And throughout, some of the Australian lingo interrupted the flow of reading, despite a glossary at the back.

            Still, still…the writing about place is lyrical. Listen, for instance to this passage:

            Rain suited Cromarty. In the old town, it turned the cobbled gutters to silver streams, darkened the bricks and stones and tiles, gave the leaves of the evergreen oaks a deep lustre.

            And the man can write about dogs. Not the easiest thing to do without getting bogged down into sentimentality or cuteness. Joe Cashin, the cop on temporary Sabbatical recovering from a life-threatening injury, is battling pain and anomie. What helps, what structures his days are his standard black poodles. That’s right, you heard me: poodles. But Joe’s dogs aren’t fussy, overly groomed show dogs—they are intelligent, athletic, eager to chase bunnies, and a deep comfort to this man who has frayed connections to the humans in his life.  Here, Temple describes the dogs’ eagerness to reach the kitchen for their evening chow after a vigorous walk in the hills:

            He walked the last stretch as briskly as he could, and, as he put his hand out to the gate they reached him. Their curly black heads tried to nudge him aside, insisting on entering first, strong black legs pushing. He unlatched the gate, they pushed it open enough to slip in, nose to tail, trotted down the path to the shed door. Both wanted to be first again, stood with furry tails up, furry scimitars, noses touching at the door jam.

Temple gets the doggie impatience and pushiness just right. Interestingly, he doesn’t name the dogs and never describes them individually. They are just “the dogs” or “the poodles.” Like a species or a tribe of their own. 

Woof

Mr. and Mrs. Dog

I am a fool for books about dogs. (Well, a fool for dogs—but that’s another story.) And I find very few dog books to my liking. The sentimental ones embarrass me. The silly ones annoy me.

But every once in awhile, I read a dog book that charms and enlightens me. Mr. and Mrs. Dog: Our Travels, Trials, Adventures, and Epiphanies by Donald McCaig is one such book. Despite its arch title, the book is a pleasure to read. McCaig reveals a great deal about his own gruff persona, as well as bringing us along on his bumpy road to the World Sheepdog Trials in Wales. The section on his travel challenges alone is worth the price of the book. Imagine the logistics of getting two 45-lb Border collies, June and Luke, two heavy dog crates, and a duffle bag through security at Dulles, onto an Air France flight, off the flight, through security at Charles de Gaulle, into a too-small Citroen, onto a ferry at Calais… not to mention voluminous paperwork, in English and French--the challenge must have been overwhelming, but reading about it is hilarious.

And after the nightmare trip, McCaig and June and Luke arrive in Wales for practice runs before the big event—and encounter endless rain and mud for days and days. Not to mention the horrors of driving on the “wrong” side of the narrow rural roads. Still, it is worth it to participate in this world-class sheepherding trial and to meet friends, old and new, in the world of sheepherding. McCaig brings all this alive to readers whose urban lives are light years away from the gritty reality of sheep farming and trialing.

Woven into his tale of the journey to Wales are vignettes with trainers of pet dogs, whose approaches to training vary wildly. His insights are typically acerbic and funny, but don’t particularly enrich his narrative. Doesn’t matter. The sheepdogs and the sheepdog trials are the thing, and he writes about that wonderfully.

As an aside, I had the pleasure of meeting McCaig recently when he talked about his book at my local independent bookstore, McIntyre’s Books in Fearrington Village. He is an avuncular fellow, just as gruff as his books would lead you to guess, but completely, authentically charming. Almost as charming as his “literary dog,” Joy who accompanied him on the book tour. But no one, really, can expect to beat a Border collie for charm.

Giving up, moving on...

How long do you give a book? Ten pages? Twenty? Fifty?

I used to be more patient, more forgiving of a book that didn’t engage me quickly. I respected authors who took their time unfolding a narrative. I felt that anyone who had written a novel deserved a long look.

Not so much these days. Partly, it’s my getting older—how many books, realistically, can I read in my remaining years? Partly, it’s a feeling that some writers, some good writers, are just phoning it in. That seems especially true of authors of series who may be pressured to crank out a book a year to satisfy fans or publisher. But I’ve noticed a trend—OK, maybe a trendlet—of well-known, well-regarded authors who’ve written pedestrian novels, work not worthy of them.

In recent months, I’ve plowed through two novels that I expected to love and admire—novels that I found disappointing on so many levels. One is a bloated (almost 500-pages) story tracing the lives of a group of friends through decades. I’d greatly admired the author’s previous novel and looked forward to this one, which was well reviewed. Ten pages in, I thought: “uh-oh.” But I kept going. And going. And going. At the end, the book felt as disappointing as it had felt on page 10. You could feel the machinery grinding, sense the author cranking it out.

Another book, by an even more celebrated author, was hailed as a major event, especially as it was his first novel in decades. I had a different experience with this one. The writing was breathtaking—the kind of prose that makes you stop, re-read a passage, maybe read it aloud, and wonder at the sheer beauty of it. No doubt about it: this is the real thing. But the story? So boring, so shallow. I wanted the main character to be more, to be greater than he was. I kept expecting that he would grow in integrity and wisdom. But no, just more women, more modest fame. At the end, I didn’t care. But I did feel angry with the author for pissing away his prodigious talent on such a slight story.

But maybe my anger is misplaced. Maybe it’s not fair to attack an author who, after all, has written something. Probably, my anger really is targeted at myself for insisting on continuing to read something that just doesn’t work for me. I feel that I’ve wasted my time, and clearly, it was my choice to waste my time. But I kept hoping things would get better—page after page.

How many pages do you give a book before you give up and move on?

Flying across the centuries

I’ve been yearning for a book like this.

For too many weeks, I’ve been reading books that were disappointing, banal, or even pretty good. But I’ve been craving a wonderful book—one that would pull me in, delight me with its style, engage me with its story.

Transatlantic is such a novel. It is superb on so many levels, it’s hard to know where to begin. Author Colm McCann, who won the 2009 National Book Award for his tour de force, Let the Great World Spin, has worked his magic again. He tells seven stories whose characters and themes interconnect, stitching connections between Ireland and America through a century and a half.

The first three accounts honor heroes whose imagination and persistence expand horizons. In 1919, Jack Alcock and Teddy Brown, British World War I veterans, kit out a Vickers Vimy (“a modified bomber, all wood and linen and wire”) and, against all odds, make the first transatlantic flight, from Newfoundland to the coast of Ireland. (Eight years later, Lindbergh would garner all the praise, because he made the first solo trans-Atlantic flight.) The social landscape of Ireland and the towering figure of abolitionist Frederick Douglass dominate the second tale. In 1845, Douglass made a lecture tour through Ireland and England, raising awareness about the scourge of slavery and raising funds for abolitionist groups in the United States. The final character to push back at boundaries is former U.S. Senator George Mitchell, who helped broker the peace between Northern Ireland and the Republic of Ireland.

All three stories are anchored in history, but McCann’s magic is making the players real as well as heroic. The vivid details plunge us into the historic periods and also help us fully imagine the lives of these pioneering men.

As wonderful as their tales are, the stories in the second part of the book are even more powerful. Four generations of women—Irish and American—intersect with the men depicted in the book’s first section, mostly in small, seemingly insignificant ways. Yet, it is through the lens of these women—Lily, Emily, Lotte, Hannah—that we see clearly the cross-cutting paths of history, both large and personal. There are the usual milestones of life: marriage, children,  hardship, sorrow, death. Throughout it all, the women persevere and demonstrate their own kind of quiet heroism.

And the ending of this book is one of the most beautiful moments of grace I have ever encountered. It is a perfect Mobius strip for the entire sweep of the novel.

McCann’s style sometimes stops you in your tracks—and sometimes just sweeps you along in the power of story. So, yes, this book has been a joy to read. I want to start it over again.