Dad singing his heart out in the 1930s.

Dad was still performing when he met my mother in the Catskills. Only the responsibility of marriage and family could make him take a hiatus from acting in exchange for more predictable employment. Still, my childhood memories are filled with him accompanying himself (and me) on the piano while singing standards from both the 20th-century-popular-music songbook and Broadway.

This explains why I’m a bit of a Broadway geek. It also explains why I loved Kristina Riggle’s newest book, Vivian in Red (Polis Books).

Vivian tells the story of octogenarian Milo Short, a Broadway producer and famous lyricist who, on his way to the office one day, encounters a woman he hasn’t seen in over sixty years. As if that weren’t impossible enough, Vivian is as young and beautiful as she was when he last saw her in the 1930s. The sight shocks Milo into a stroke, leaving him unable to communicate the flurry of thoughts that now race through his still-active mind. Vivian, you see, has arrived on a mission, and Milo suspects he knows what it is. It will take his granddaughter, Eleanor, to dig through his theatrical past to uncover the truth that can potentially set him free.

Of course, the theater part of this novel is a lot of fun. Ms. Riggle brings not only the research skills of the journalist she is, but a love of the stage fueled by her own past experiences in community theater productions. The reader follows Milo’s career from song-plugger on Tin Pan Alley through Broadway lyricist to successful producer. We are flies on the wall for the mounting of a 1930s musical (Ms. Riggle’s lyrics for Milo’s songs fit perfectly into the era), and once we sweat through the production/rehearsal process, we’re invited to opening night. We even get to mingle with celebrities like Cole Porter, Jimmy McHugh, and Dorothy Fields. But you don’t need an interest in theater or history to enjoy Vivian in Red. This is Ms. Riggle’s sixth novel, and she brings to it the same understanding of human frailty and strength that infuses all her work.  If you’ve ever had a dream or a relationship, you’ll recognize Vivian‘s  heart. You might even find yourself in the mix as well.

Milo’s rise from a poor Jewish family to Broadway success echoes the trajectory of a long list of great early-20th-century lyricists and composers (Irving Berlin, George and Ira Gershwin, and Yip Harburg to name but a few). My father’s story resonates against this; with so many Jews succeeding in show business, why wouldn’t theatrical success seem within the reach of both a young Jewish boy from Brooklyn and his immigrant mother? It was their version of the American Dream, and my father never quite left it behind.

Dad was back onstage before I left my teens, performing in Annapolis, Washington, and Baltimore. He did print ads and commercials, appeared in movies and on TV. He performed his last role between rounds of chemo; as far as he was concerned, missing a show was not an option.

Even now, over a decade past my father’s last performance, people still tell me how much they enjoyed watching him onstage. I remember the stories he told with the comic timing of a master. Sure, maybe we’d heard some of those stories before, but who cared? With Dad, there was always the chance for something more entertaining than mere conversation.

Milo Short reminds me of him, and I am grateful for the visit.

Victoria who?

Back in 1872, when Victoria Woodhull became the first woman to run for President of the United States, nobody would have asked that question. Considered a visionary by some, a “she-devil” by others, Victoria had acquired quite a reputation by the time she was nominated by the Equal Rights Party. She’d been born poor in rural Ohio, the daughter of a con artist and a fanatic spiritualist, and she lived exactly the sort of peripatetic life those beginnings imply. Social activist, stockbroker, newspaper editor, suffragette, spiritualist (many would add prostitute, con artist, and fraud), Victoria got around.

Victoria Woodhull

It would take more than one blog post to do justice to Victoria and her vivid existence. Her relevance to me, however, is more easily defined: my novel, Newport, was inspired by an incident in her life that took place during her spiritualist phase.

Victoria and her younger sister Tennessee had spent much of their childhoods traveling in the Claflin family medicine show, promoted by their father as fortune-tellers and psychic healers. Victoria grew into adulthood claiming an ability to communicate with the dead. This communication grew particularly lucrative in 1866 when, at the insistence of her “spirit guide (the Greek statesman Demosthenes),” Victoria relocated to New York City to join her sister, who was already there. It was in New York that Victoria and Tennessee caught the biggest fish of their spiritualist careers: Cornelius Vanderbilt, one of the richest men in the country.

Cornelius Vanderbilt

The sisters met Commodore Vanderbilt at just the right time. Still mourning the loss of his wife, Vanderbilt was between spiritualists. His old one had made so much money getting rid of the two spirits the old man feared were haunting him that she could retire to Vermont, leaving the path free and clear for a new medium. Victoria and Tennie began hosting seances to ease Vanderbilt’s pains, both psychic and physical. Victoria channeled not only messages from Vanderbilt’s other-world mother and children, but stock tips from the great beyond. (Never mind that “the great beyond” was probably her friend Josie Mansfield, who was the mistress of one of Vanderbilt’s business rivals.) The tips worked so well that when Vanderbilt was asked about his stock market success, he replied, “Do as I do, consult the spirits.”

In the long run, the arrangement proved fortuitous for all parties involved. The sisters got the financial backing they needed to open the first female-run brokerage on Wall Street; Cornelius’s broken heart (and many other ailments) were soothed not only by Victoria’s seances, but by Tennie, with whom he had an affair.

Reading about this a few years ago made me think. At what point do people who grieve become so desperate that they’ll believe anything? What besides greed motivates the medium? Or …what if the medium is legit, and the messages delivered from “beyond” are real? Once the questions began flowing, characters, setting, and plot fell into place, and Newport was up and running.

Of course, Newport has many other plot points. But those who have read the book will recognize how this chapter from Victoria’s life impacted the story.

Who’s to say what will trigger inspiration for a book? Almost any tidbit or event will do, and once ignited, the writing process takes on a life of its own. Sometimes, the flow of ideas can feel like a gift from another realm. So, maybe I should add “muse” to Victoria Woodhull’s long list of professions.

Rumor had it that after Cornelius Vanderbilt’s death, his heirs paid Victoria and Tennessee to go away. If so, the money came at a good time. Recently divorced and exhausted, Victoria left for England, where she became a lecturer and magazine publisher. She married again and lived fairly respectably until her death in 1927 at the age of 88.

Victoria Woodhull was inducted into the National Women’s Hall of Fame in 2001. You can read a little more about her here.

Woodhull for President

A blurb is a short, positive description of a book, written by other authors (because let’s face it, your mom is a little biased). Blurbs are featured prominently on a book’s cover and sometimes on separate pages inside the book as well. NEWPORT has four, and I am extremely grateful to the generous authors who provided them: Deanna Raybourn, Simone St. James, Ashley Weaver, and Beatriz Williams. No matter how much someone enjoys a story, providing a blurb takes time – time to read, time to think, and time to compose a few-sentence sketch that might encourage readers to pick up the book. I so appreciate that these four authors made room for NEWPORT in their busy lives.

So, how do those blurbs get there? For fiction, blurb requests usually are sent by editors to authors whose own work attracts an audience that might enjoy the book in question. But just because an author has been approached does not mean she is obligated to provide praise. Requests to read can be turned down. Even if an author is kind enough to read, she may decline the opportunity to blurb. There are all sorts of reasons for passing: the book may not be the author’s cup of tea, or there may be time constraints (like most parts of publishing, blurbs come with deadlines). But those blurbs on the cover were not command performances, churned out by authors through sheer obligation.

Of course, you won’t pick up a book that screams, “Worst book ever! Read at your own risk!” Even though blurbs are not coerced, they are meant to be marketing tools, not warning labels.

Since NEWPORT’s release, I’ve had the opportunity to blurb a few books myself. To me, it’s an honor to be asked at all, and I take my blurbing seriously. I know the feeling of being the one waiting to hear whether or not a reader (me, in this case) likes the book enough to endorse it. No matter how gentle or logical the refusal to blurb is, the author of the book will always see it as a rejection. We can’t help it; we’re wired that way. It helps (a little) to remember that these are professional decisions, not personal slights.

Good book blurbs allow you a glimpse of the story that awaits once you start reading. Now, thanks to the wonders of the internet, the books those blurbs adorn are not the only written words subject to review: the blurbs themselves are, too.

This brings me back to my original question: are you influenced by the blurbs you read on book covers? I’d love to know.

I have a manuscript box like that. Stashed in a dark part of the basement, it’s filled with stories that, through no fault of their own, just … well … stink. Yeah, I wrote them. At one time, I even thought they were good.

Thank goodness we all get a chance to evolve.

Looking back, my writing has always been character-driven, especially if you consider a character sufficiently developed when he/she can be summed up in a word or two, as in “the sassy one”; “the troubled one”; “the one who surprises even herself.” (My earlier work is more accessible if you like stereotypes.)

You could always tell exactly how my characters were feeling, because the adverbs attached to the dialogue tags told you so. Readers were subjected to a lot of stuff like “she said questioningly,” and “he said evocatively.” If it still wasn’t obvious enough, there were many different ways to “say” things. Characters purred, chirped, and grunted. It was a regular zoo in each chapter. And, to make sure there was no doubt whatsoever, sometimes the dialogue tags were double-barreled, a fun reading experience for everyone: “she whimpered miserably,” “he snarled angrily,” “she commented pertly.” Dialogue tags, meant to be unobtrusive, were prominent enough to become their very own characters.

Plots were linear. Sure, there were stories to tell, but they lacked depth. Sometimes there was no hook, no compelling reason for anyone to want to turn the page to discover what happened next. Basically, I was writing for myself. Self-indulgent? You bet. Awful? Right again. And, yet, those stories still have a special place in my heart. Those characters and I were friends.

There are some manuscripts a writer puts away knowing that they’ll be back. The plot, although in need of editing, is compelling enough to revisit. The characters have something to say. When the time is right, that manuscript will be revisited and edited into something sharp and readable.

The manuscripts in the box downstairs are not those stories. There’s a reason they live deep in the basement, out of sight.

If I remember my Rudolph correctly, the inhabitants of the Island of Misfit Toys are eventually picked up by Santa and delivered to children who will appreciate them. While nothing quite as heartwarming happens on the Island of Misfit Manuscripts, those early drafts do serve a purpose. Every once in a while, almost by mistake, I wrote a description or phrase back then that was actually good. There was effective use of imagery. There was a character who does not inspire cringing and/or eye-rolls. Like old cars that have outlasted their use, these old manuscripts can be mined for “parts” to use in newer stories.

Sometimes, when I’m feeling frustrated with my current manuscript, I re-read one of my oldies-but-baddies. It never fails to make me feel better.

Although I love to read, I have never been the reader my mom was. Even now, my days are so full that reading is relegated to evenings. Lately, though, that evening reading has begun earlier and earlier, and I’ve been fortunate enough to bury myself in some great books this summer. I’ve enjoyed each one.

This was the summer I discovered Simone St. James, and I gobbled up The Other Side of Midnight in June. The post-war texture of 1920s England combined with the supernatural and deft writing was right up my alley. I would have poured myself directly into St. James’s The Haunting of Maddy Clare, except that this would have required prying the book from my husband’s hands. I had to wait several weeks for that one (and listen to my husband’s “Hurry. Read it. I want to discuss.”), but it was worth it.

While I waited I finished up a nonfiction book I’d begun in spring: Past Imperfect: History According to the Movies. This one was edited by Mark C. Carnes and discussed the factual differences between historical events and how they’ve been portrayed in the movies. (Every once in a while I like to wear my geek hat.)

Next came Beatriz Williams’s newest, Tiny Little Thing. I love getting lost in this author’s big, tasty stories, and this one did not disappoint. It was a great summer read that kept me up way too late each night, but isn’t that what July is for?

I took a break from fiction next and enjoyed Modern Romance, by Aziz Ansari. It managed to be both humorous and true, and I still haven’t figured out whether it’s a snapshot or an indictment.

After this I breezed through Hope Out Loud, Kristina Riggle’s novella sequel to her novel The Life You’ve Imagined. A reader doesn’t always get to see “what happens next,” and the shorter length was the perfect accompaniment to a glass of wine on a hot summer evening. What fun!

Jami Attenberg’s Saint Mazie made me want to find a book club. Any book club. Pronto. There’s so much to discuss here, and it’s all so intriguing.

The best part is that there are still books waiting on my nightstand. I am currently reading Eliza Graham’s The One I Was. Next up will be Jami Attenberg’s The Middlesteins, followed by The Other Daughter (Lauren Willig) and (if I can grab it from my husband, of course) Silence for the Dead (Simone St. James).

Lots of great reading ahead of me. I wish the same for you.

Yum!

Here’s what you need to know:

1. The author had attended a book club to discuss her first novel and was then invited to join that club.

2. The author feels that her reading experience is totally ruined by discussions with a “huddle of women blathering over mimosas and cheese cubes.”

3. The author prefers to “let the book simmer” in her head “before it becomes a part of my soul,” and she can’t do that while “trapped in a room with 12 biblio-bitches who can’t articulate …”

Ok. So there’s nothing wrong with the desire to internalize one’s reading experience. Reading is personal, different for each of us. But, even when I set aside the author’s need to belittle other reading approaches in order to aggrandize her own, there’s still something I just don’t get. The writer of this essay isn’t simply a reader. She’s an author, which means she’s dissing the very people who could help make her novel a success. But, beyond that, she’s missing out on a huge gift: the opportunity to engage in discussion about that book she worked so hard to bring into the world. (Because, really – who wants to invite her to their book club after knowing the disdain she holds for each member there?)

I’ve enjoyed my recent interviews. Both in written and oral form, interviewers have posed questions that made me view NEWPORT in a whole different way. Book clubs take that even one step further by inviting conversation. They not only provide reader insight, they offer an author the chance to understand the “why” behind those insights. That’s a veritable gold mine of information. I have a few book club invitations on the horizon, and I couldn’t be more interested in what readers have to say.

I wish I had that same conversational opportunity with reviews.

Reviews seem to fall into three categories: positive, “meh,” and “huh?” Not surprisingly, the positive reviews feel great. I write because I want to share a story that I hope people will enjoy. Knowing that I’ve given someone that pleasure is a lovely thing.

The “meh” reviews can be hard (see above reason for why I write), but they’re to be expected. Not every reader enjoys the same kind of book or writing style, and it would be foolish to believe that I could please all. I do appreciate when “meh” reviews include explanations that allow potential readers to decide for themselves whether or not the story might be their own cup of tea.

But the “huh?” reviews … they’re the ones where I want to know more. What does it mean when a positive review says NEWPORT was like a “plot from scooby doo (sic)”? Why the surprised irritation that the story line includes seances when the plot synopsis states that it does? Why are “flawed characters” a bad thing? Enquiring minds want to know!

I would love to sit in a forum that included those who loved NEWPORT’s aura of the 1920s and those for whom there was no evocation of the era at all. And let’s invite those who felt that the supernatural aspect of the book was a fascinating addition and those who thought that the supernatural torpedoed the story. Ultimately, writing is about communication. I’d consider myself lucky indeed if something I wrote stimulated a conversation.

So, please invite me to your book club! And, if that’s not feasible, there are a few other ways to clue me in on your thoughts (or to get an idea of mine). I’ll be hosting #LitChat on Twitter on Monday, August 24th from 4 p.m. until 5 p.m. Join the conversation! You can also drop me a line at jillmorrowbooks@gmail.com. (All of my contact info is here.) I’d love to hear from you.

And I actually like mimosas and cheese cubes.

But, wait. What’s that other piece of music I hear swelling in the background? (And, believe me, this song always swells.) It’s “Time to Say Goodbye,” that 1996 European hit sung as a duet by Sarah Brightman and Andrea Bocelli. It’s sappy as anything … and totally appropriate because, yeah, as I watch Newport go public, I realize that it’s time to say goodbye to these characters I’ve lived with for so long. I’m going to miss them.

Most authors know much more about their characters than they share in their writing. I usually know everything about mine, from their childhood fears to how they take their coffee (if they take it at all). Because I “see” and “hear” them as I write, I am aware of their facial expressions, gestures, and the timbre of their voices. Best of all, it never feels like I create these people, but rather that they reveal themselves to me as we continue along our mutual path. This means that I’m always learning fresh information about them, and our relationship never feels stale.

It’s very hard to let go.

For a while after I begin a new novel, I feel unfaithful to the old gang as I turn toward a new one. The new characters aren’t instantly thrilled with me, either. We have a stiff relationship at first. It takes time for us to trust one another. But I know that soon we’ll become familiar enough with each other that they’ll start spilling their secrets, and I’ll be off on another adventure. After all, Newport‘s characters were once strangers to me, too.

In addition to missing these characters, I worry about how the world will treat them. I wrote Newport because I wanted to share their stories. Some readers will like the book, some not so much. No author can please every reader. But it can be a roller-coaster ride, and I hope my characters don’t get too beaten up out on their own. Like any parent watching a child achieve independence, I want others to treat my “babies” kindly.

So, I hope you’ll allow Newport to temporarily transport you into another world. I hope you’ll leave a review on Amazon or Goodreads. And, as always, I’d love to hear your thoughts. (My contact info can be found here on this website.) But, mostly, I hope that I’ve done justice to my characters, and that you’ll be able to see beneath their surfaces and flaws to understand why they act the way they do and who they really are. I want you to get to know them the way I did because, ultimately, Newport is their story. I’m honored that they allowed me to tell it.

Goodbye, Newport friends.

And hello to my new confidantes.

This was my introduction to the word “anachronism.”

An anachronism is a custom, event, or object stuck in a period in which it does not belong. When readers find anachronisms in their historical fiction, it makes them doubt everything else the author tells them. It’s like being offered a chocolate chip cookie fresh out of the oven and discovering that those “chips” are really raisins. The cookie is suddenly less palatable, and you’re never going to trust the baker again.

Most authors do their very best to research as accurately as possible. Nailing down historical fact is relatively easy. For example, it’s obvious that characters in 1912 can’t hear news of the Titanic sinking via radio; a diabetic character in 1920 can’t reach for insulin; characters in 1957 can’t refer to 50 states in the U.S.A.

Conveying the “feel” of a time period is a little more difficult. Even if a character is meant to be a free-spirited “one-of-a-kind” (which she technically can be only after 1961), there’s only so far an author can go before it challenges the bonds of credibility. Language counts, too. It broke my heart when writing NEWPORT to part with the expletive “horsefeathers.” It was perfect for the character and the scene. Unfortunately, NEWPORT takes place in 1921, and “horsefeathers” did not enter the vernacular until 1928.

I research constantly when writing historical fiction. I try hard to nail the facts and textures of the era. But no matter how many times I check my facts, there is always the chance that something incorrect will slip into the story. I’m already wincing about it.

It is in this spirit that I offer the words of Maud Howe Elliott.

Maud Howe Elliott (Nov. 9, 1854-March 19th, 1948) was the daughter of Julia Ward Howe and Samuel Gridley Howe. She won a Pulitzer for co-authoring The Life of Julia Ward Howe (1916). A prominent resident of Newport, R.I., Elliott was a founder of the Progressive party and a patron of the arts. She wrote many books during the course of her long life, including This Was My Newport, an autobiography published in 1944. This “apology” appeared in the Foreward to the Second Edition of that book, and is dated August 1945:

My attention has been called to certain errors in the first edition of this book. I am sorry to have made any misstatements, but I wish to point out that it is commonly believed that no book has ever printed without some errors.

It is human to err, and I can only say in reply to my critic that I tried to tell the truth, and if I have failed it has been with malice toward none and charity to all.

I do find it amusing that Elliott doesn’t go back to correct anything after this disclaimer, making it clear that she’s convinced her memory and facts are in far better shape than those of her singular “critic.”

Me? I would go back and correct. At once. But in the meantime, I’m thinking I should print Mrs. Elliott’s words up on cards to distribute should the worst occur.

Please know that I have tried my very best to make NEWPORT as accurate as possible, and that I am now fully aware that American prairie kids in the mid-19th century would not be lobbing paper airplanes.

Whew. I feel so much better now.

Maud Howe Elliott c. 1928

Aren’t they gorgeous? I’ve been lucky. It doesn’t take a special study to know that book covers matter. A good cover inspires a potential reader to pick up the book to learn more; a bad cover barely registers as the book browser moves on to a different title.

Some people believe that originality and a fresh approach are key to producing good book covers. That’s not entirely true. While we have a tendency to scorn cliches, there’s a reason that certain images, colors, and fonts are used repeatedly. A book’s cover, after all, exists primarily to help market the book. It gets about three seconds of our attention to do that. One quick glance at that cover should not only make a good first impression but should help the reader categorize the story within the pages as well. Using elements familiar to particular genres triggers instant recognition in our brains. That’s one reason you won’t find elegant, flowing font and pastel colors on the cover of a tense thriller, or big, blocky fonts and gun illustrations on a romance. Sticking to general design standards for a particular genre lets a reader instantly know what sort of book to expect; connecting cover imagery to books that have been successful in the past further encourages that reader to take a chance on a new title.

You can tell a lot by looking at my three book covers. With the otherworldly nature of their illustrations, ANGEL CAFE and THE OPEN CHANNEL imply some supernatural chills. ANGEL CAFE in particular has some pretty spooky font going on, and if that didn’t communicate the nature of the book, the tagline would help: “Some spirits are best left alone.” The mood continues for THE OPEN CHANNEL, although the font here has a slightly medieval feel, telegraphing the fact that part of the story takes place in the 14th century.

If you guessed from their covers that my first two books belong to a different genre than NEWPORT does, you were correct. NEWPORT is historical fiction, and its cover evokes its era (the story is set in 1921).

Just as we know what we like when we see it, we also know what we DON’T like. If a great book cover can encourage sales, the unfortunate downside is that a poorly designed cover can become the butt of jokes. It was only a matter of time in our internet-saturated world before a website like this happened.

NEWPORT’s cover was designed by Amanda Kain. ANGEL CAFE’s cover was illustrated by David Stevenson, who also designed the cover of THE OPEN CHANNEL. I am indebted to them for keeping me off of that website.

I do, however, have a confession to make: as excited as I am about my novel’s audio release, I’ve never actually listened to an audiobook.

I know. What rock have I been living under? Because now that my own book will be available in audio formats, it seems that everybody I talk to not only listens to audiobooks, but adores them. One friend tells me that listening to audiobooks together is a cherished part of family vacation road trips. Another says that stories and earbuds enhance his long walks. The AAA guy I didn’t know before I went in for a Triptik swears by them. (Yes, there is a story behind why I now know this about the AAA guy, but we’ll save that for another time.)

The audiobook business is booming. Last year, over 35,000 titles were released in audio formats, compared to around 12,000 in 2011. By the end of 2014, the global audiobook business was worth more than two billion dollars. Not bad for an industry that began back in the 1930s, when the Library of Congress created a “talking books” program to provide reading material for veterans blinded in World War I.

My informal poll of people who listen to audiobooks revealed that the narrator of the book is hugely important. Some listeners have disliked entire books because the narrator’s voice does not seem to “fit” the story. The AAA guy (really, he needs his own post) actually buys audiobooks based on who is narrating them and is such a fan of one narrator that he’ll buy any novel the guy narrates, regardless of whether there is any interest in the story itself. So, clearly, choosing the right narrator for NEWPORT mattered. (No pressure there. None at all.) Fortunately, my publisher did most of the hard work, presenting me with three competent narrators from which to choose. There was no way I could mess this up.

What an interesting experience, listening to each recording and trying to decide how NEWPORT should sound! When I write, I do sense my characters’ distinct voices and vocal inflections, but I’ve never had to translate what I hear in my head into actual tone. Which narrator had the timbre that would best express the mood of the story? Did any of the three possibilities have particular vocal nuances that might help listeners differentiate between speakers in conversation? Did one voice help weave the texture of the book’s historical settings better than the others? In the end, I used sheer intuition to make my decision: NEWPORT will be narrated by Audie-Award-winning actress Johanna Parker. (You can learn more about her here.)

Not everybody agrees that listening to books instead of reading them is a good thing. A recent study at the University of Waterloo in Ontario indicated that the freedom to multitask while listening to an audiobook may prevent the mind from absorbing  words it hears as effectively as those it reads. Maybe. But we are all so busy these days that reading time is often at a premium. For many, this isn’t an “either/or” choice. Listening is often the only way that a book might ever get “read.”

I can’t help but be a fan of any method that allows me to share my novel with readers. I’m also looking forward to listening to the story myself, experiencing NEWPORT in a whole new way.

And then I want to talk it over with the AAA guy.