The Queen of Comfort Reads: Mary Stewart

When the world gets you down (which seems to be fairly often these days) may I recommend a nice, warm helping of Mary Stewart? Stewart had a long and prolific career, stretching from the fifties through the nineties. Though she wrote a number of Arthurian fantasy novels, it is her body of romantic suspense novels for which she is best known, and probably best loved, starting with Madam, Will You Talk? in 1955 through Rose Cottage in 1997.

Stewart’s heroines are smart, adventurous, brave, and occasionally sassy. Reading these novels as a young girl, I found myself wishing to be one of these independent young women, finding adventures—and love—in the wilds of Scotland or on a sunny Greek isle. Several years ago, I searched out first editions of Stewart’s romantic suspense novels through the seventies, the same library editions I’d read and loved. And while they are not in perfection condition, this little collection is one of my most prized possessions.

I cannot say exactly what it is about these books that brings me such pleasure—the evocative settings, the sense of being transported to another time and place, the often tender and bittersweet love stories at their centers? I just know that on a rough day, I need a little of Mary’s “rough magic.”

What about you, friends? Which books get you through difficult times?

(For a deeper dive into all things Stewart, check out this wonderful blog, Mary Queen of Plots.)

Nancy Drew, I Love You

I stole the title of this post from a poem by Maria Mazziotti Gillan, an Italian-American  poet from Paterson who has an uncanny knack of telling my life story in her work. In the poem, the speaker describes Nancy Drew as the best friend she didn't have, the adventurous girl she wanted to be but was too timid. Like Gillan's eleven year old speaker, I, too, was a fraidy cat--fearful of getting hurt and getting in trouble, so my adventures had to be vicarious.

And like so many of us who end up writers, I found those adventures in books. For that I will be forever grateful to Carolyn Keene, who allowed me to explore hidden staircases and haunted bungalows without ever leaving my house. And for giving me a smart, plucky heroine who had her own blue convertible (and who found solving mysteries more stimulating than her boyfriend Ned.) Nancy Drew was the kind of girl I could be some day, if I were lucky. As Gillan so eloquently puts it:

Nancy Drew, I still love you for taking me away with you,

carrying me away from the tight confines of my life,

to a place where everything is possible

and bravery is common and miraculous as stars.

Excerpt from Italian Women in Black Dresses, by Maria Mazziotti Gillan

Poldark Redux

I was a college student when I was first introduced to Ross Poldark, as played by the wonderful Robin Ellis, and in the days long before DVR or even VHS tapes, I made sure I was in front of that television every Sunday night to watch Masterpiece Theatre's romantic saga set in Cornwall. When the first series ended, I plunged into the books by Winston Graham (all 12 of them!) and read them in order, following the loves and losses of Ross, Demelza and their children.

When I heard there was to be a new Poldark airing on Masterpiece, I was ambivalent--part of me was thrilled at the idea of visiting with those characters again, but another part of me wondered if anyone could live up to Robin Ellis and Angharad Rees as the main characters. I'm happy to report that I am enthralled with the new series. Its visuals are stunning, the score is lovely, and the acting is fine. And okay, Aidan Turner is mighty easy on the eyes:

Watching this series had made me miss the original though, and given me an even stronger hankering for a long overdue visit to Cornwall. . .

What I'm Reading

With Easter comes a much-needed break (both from day and writer jobs) and the luxury of time to read for pleasure. Right now I'm 3/4 of the way through The Death of Lucy Kyte, by Nicola Upson, the latest in her series featuring Golden Age mystery writer Josephine Tey as her sleuth.

In this entry, Josephine inherits a mysterious cottage from a godmother she never knew. But the place has a checkered past, figuring prominently in a 19th century murder. There's also a secret diary, distrustful villagers, and a "ghost" who may turn out to be a flesh-and-blood murderer. It's spookily atmospheric (I actually had trouble sleeping last night) and a traditional mystery in the very best sense. Savoring these last few pages!

NEXT UP:

Can't wait to dig into this one--it's a prequel to the Ian Rutledge series, in which we get to meet Rutledge before he has to cope with the crippling effects of World War I. It will be fun to have a glimpse of his world in those last peaceful days. (But if I know the Todds, there will be shadows looming. . .)

What I'm Reading: February Edition

My current reading list is a smorgasbord of genres--mystery, contemporary romance, and fantasy. While very different books, each shares an important February theme: love.

I'm just wrapping up Where Memories Lie, Book #12 in Deborah Crombie's popular series featuring Duncan Kincaid and Gemma James. I've been a fan of this series almost since its inception in 1993, and Crombie's in fine form in this entry. Gemma's involvement in a cold case leads her to one that Duncan is handling, and the connection of the two across generations is believable and fascinating. I adore Duncan and Gemma as a couple, and this book provides an oh-so-satisfying surprise at the end.

I'm about to start The Perfect Match, a contemporary romance by none other than the reigning queen of the genre, Kristan Higgins. Just selected by the NY Times as one of the best romances of 2013, the story features a whole bunch of my favorite romance tropes: an endearingly flawed heroine, a marriage of convenience, and a hero with a British accent. Can't wait to curl up with this one!

 Neil Gaiman's Stardust is very much a fairy tale for adults--and a mildly spicy one at that! Young Tristran Thorn goes out on a seemingly impossible quest: capture a fallen star for the beautiful object of his desire. When his journey takes him beyond the high walls of his quiet village into a land of enchantment, he finds unexpected surprises, including the real meaning of love.

Happy Reading, everyone! 

Christie's Characters: Outsiders and Observers

My summer reading often involves re-reading favorite works that help me clear my head for my own writing. In the case of Agatha Christie, I get the added benefit of learning from a master of the genre while I read.

I just loaded a bunch of Christie on my Kindle, and discovered to my delight that there was a Miss Marple I'd somehow missed: 4:50 to Paddington. The "4:50" of the title is a time, and refers to a train on which a murder occurs, witnessed by an elderly lady from a passing train on the opposite tracks. The authorities, of course, chalk it up to her age and an overactive imagination, but her friend Miss Jane Marple believes her, and sets out to solve the case.

Jane Marple, like Christie's other famous detective, Hercule Poirot, is an amateur sleuth. Both tend to be one step ahead of the police, and both have a way of getting witnesses to talk to them. But here's what Christie understood so well about her two characters: they were outsiders, and as outsiders occupied a unique position--that of observer.

Among the English upper crust, Poirot is a foreigner. His slicked-back hair and waxed mustache are a joke, as is his accent. Those around him--including the various murderers he foils--don't perceive him as a threat. He's not one of them, so they ignore him. They don't reckon on the fact that nothing escapes his notice.

I'm a Miss Marple fan, but I wasn't always. As a young reader of Christie, I had no interest in an elderly lady who sits in a corner knitting, and therein lies her power. Then, as now, elderly ladies are all but invisible in society; they usually hold little power, and they are easily dismissed by others (as is the case of the woman in the book I'm reading now). But they sure as hell pay attention, something I appreciate much more as I get older. Miss Marple, with little to do except watch people, has an understanding of human behavior beyond that of the various Scotland Yard inspectors she foils.

When I set out to create an amateur sleuth of my own, I made her a mystery writer. (In fact, Victoria's main character, Bernardo Vitali, might be considered the Italian version of Poirot.) As a writer, Vic is also an observer. She takes in the small details of physical appearance and personality that others might miss. And as a writer of mysteries, she's conversant with the why and how of murder. But unlike Poirot and Miss Marple, she makes her share of mistakes.

As does her creator. . .

Mary Stewart at Midnight

Or any other time, as far as I'm concerned. One of  my all-time favorite comfort reads have to be Mary Stewart's classic romantic suspense novels of the 50s and 60s. (I make one allowance for the 70s for Touch Not the Cat. Best love story ever.) I discovered her as a teenager, and fell in love with her romantic locales, feisty, independent heroines, and swoon-worthy heroes--many of the cerebral variety. Over the last couple of years I've been collecting early editions  published by Morrow.

None of them is particularly valuable; a couple are old library editions, but I think they're gorgeous. And there's nothing like curling up with one on a rainy night. For other Stewart fans out there, please see this terrific site by Jennie and Julie, who also have a companion blog for all things Lady Mary.

♥ ♥ ♥

Summer Reading

So despite a looming deadline on my first mystery, I find I need to take a break now and then for some fun summer reads. Here's what's on the pile and in the Kindle: Poetic Justice, by Alicia Rasley. I would love this book even if the image on the cover were not one of my all-time favorite paintings. It's a Regency romance that is smart, smart, smart. The story features a brainy, feisty heroine, and a dashing hero whose intelligence is as formidable as his fighting skills. At the center of the story is a collection of rare books that the lovers lust after nearly as much as they do each other. AND there are Shakespeare references. (Be still my heart.) Death at La Fenice, by Donna Leon. Friends who are rabid fans of her series featuring Venice police Commissario Guido Brunetti have been urging me to read Donna Leon for months. I have just begun this one, which opens with a dead conductor at the Venice opera house--apparently someone has put cyanide in his espresso. I'm already hooked and looking forward to finding out who had it in for the maestro. 11/22/63, by Stephen King. My husband bought me this book for Christmas, but I haven't dared crack it open--I knew once I started King's latest, I wouldn't be able to stop. What baby boomer could resist the premise? An English teacher (an English teacher hero!) in Maine discovers a time portal in an old diner, and goes on a quest to stop the Kennedy assassination. But when he runs into a strange loner named Lee Harvey Oswald, things really get dicey. Saving this one for when I finish the first draft of my manuscript; I won't have a book to deliver otherwise!

Dorothy's Lord Peter*

I've always been a Dorothy Sayers fan girl, but a recent reading of Barbara Reynolds' biography sent me scurrying back to Sayers' Lord Peter Wimsey mysteries. After a delightful re-read of Busman's Honeymoon, I now plan to back up and start with the first one, Whose Body?, already loaded onto my Kindle. Following the development of Lord Peter's character from effete aristocrat to multi-layered man feels a bit like looking over Sayers' shoulder as she worked. Once Harriet Vane is introduced in Strong Poison, we follow the Vane/Wimsey courtship, with all its trials (literal and otherwise) to its thoroughly satisfying conclusion in Busman's Honeymoon.

Many Sayers' critics and biographers maintain that the Harriet Vane character is a stand-in for Sayers herself. Vane, like Harriet, is among the first group of women who take degrees from Oxford; she is a writer of complex mysteries featuring a suave detective, Robert Templeton, who shares many characteristics with Wimsey. Even Vane's physical description, with her dark bobbed hair and striking eyes, is a match for the young Sayers. And while most critics are accepting of the idea that Sayers might use a doppelganger for herself in her novels, a few (males, natch), sneer at the idea, claiming that Sayers actually fell in love with her own creation.

To that I say: why the hell not? Even if Sayers had a weakness for her own hero, that certainly doesn't detract from the brilliance of her work. Personally, I find the "Harriet novels" the most compelling of the bunch, but that's probably because I like a good love story threaded into my mysteries, a practice Sayers actually disdained until, at the suggestion of her publisher, she did it herself with great success. And while she may have identified with Harriet Vane, I suspect that Sayers had more than a bit of Wimsey in her as well--pun intended, by the way. Here's what she had to say about the creation of her wealthy, aristocratic detective:

At that time, I was particularly hard up and it gave me pleasure to spend his fortune for him. When I was dissatisfied with my single unfurnished room, I took a luxurious flat for him in Piccadilly. When my cheap rug got a hole in it, I ordered him an Aubusson carpet. When I had no money to pay my bus fare I presented him with a Daimler double-six, upholstered in a style of sober significance, and when I felt dull, I let him drive it.

If Wimsey became so real to his creator that she lived through him vicariously, and then let her alter ego fall in love with him, so be it. It's just one of the many beauties of writing fiction.

♥ ♥ ♥

*A version of this post first appeared on Red Room.

What I Learned from Jo March*

Jo March made me want to be a writer. When Jo March escaped to her attic to eat apples and write stories, I did the same. And when she announced to her sisters and her friend Laurie that her greatest wish was to "write out of a magic inkstand," to become famous and independent, I recognized a true sister. In fact, for years I imagined myself walking into a dusty office with a manuscript tied up in brown paper and ribbon, where some cigar-chomping editor would offer for it on the spot. If only.                                                      It didn't take long to outgrow that fantasy or the book, for that matter, and Little Women was relegated to my pre-feminist Era of Ignorance, and languished there for years. But a couple of summers ago I caught the Katherine Hepburn version of the movie late one night on TCM, and I was thoroughly charmed. I dug out my old hardcover and stayed up three nights solid reading it. And when a colleague gave birth to a baby girl not long after, I impulsively bought her a copy of the book. As I thought about what to inscribe in it, however, I had a twinge of post-feminist guilt. Wasn't Little Women merely a sentimental novel that Alcott had cranked out to support her family since her father, Bronson Alcott, had driven them into poverty? Doesn't the story trumpet the virtues of female submission and the repression of anger?  And let's face it, aren't the Beth scenes just a little over the top? Well, yes. But that doesn't keep me from loving the book, and even now my eyes still get moist every time  Beth drops those mittens out the window. In the end though, it is of course Jo who is the heart of the book. And it is Jo, despite her mother's admonishments, her sentimental pronouncements and Victorian trappings, who taught me that obedience is difficult and anger is necessary. --That you don't have to say yes to the first guy who asks. --That hair is overrated, and sisterhood is more than powerful--it's a veritable life force. --That it's possible to love a man who doesn't look like your Ken doll, and that even if your dress is patched, you can still dance at the party. Most importantly, Jo March showed me that even back in the 19th century there were girls like me: bookworms who found the stuff of novels more real than the lives we lived every day, and who dreamed of creating such worlds ourselves. The little girl to whom I gave Little Women is still too young for it, but I wonder if she too will cry over Beth and root for Jo as she works on her stories. I like to imagine her in about fourteen or fifteen years, walking up a set of creaky attic stairs with apples in her pockets, ready to write some Gothic tales of her own.

♥ ♥ ♥

*An earlier version of this post first appeared on Red Room