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

It's Mother's Day Everywhere. . .

Even at my front door, where some enterprising robin has decided to build her nest at the top of my (fake) forsythia wreath:

My niece Eva stood on tip-toe with her phone to snap this lovely pic. (That blue could only occur in nature. Or perhaps on a bag from Tiffany.)

Hoping that moms and mom-figures everywhere are having a perfect day today!

Farewell, Barbara Michaels

 Today I was saddened to hear of the passing of Barbara Mertz, who wrote under the pseudonyms of Elizabeth Peters and Barbara Michaels. A trained Egyptologist, as Elizabeth Peters, Mertz wrote the well-known Amelia Peabody mystery series. But it's her romantic suspense novels as Barbara Michaels that I adore.

 I discovered them right after college, when I'd already read and re-read all of Mary Stewart. I devoured them all (in chronological order, natch) and then waited breathlessly for the next ones to appear. Like Stewart's stories, they feature plucky heroines, mysterious old houses, restless ghosts, and quirky yet attractive male characters who serve as the love interest.

The Barbara Michaels stories are just good old-fashioned reads for a rainy night. And I think it's time to work my way through them again. Back in May, I attended the Malice Domestic mystery conference. Mertz was in attendance, but I was too shy and overawed to seek her out. Now I'm sorry I wasn't a bit braver.

These words appear on her website today: "At 85, Elizabeth Peters (aka Barbara Michaels) is enjoying her cats, her garden, lots of chocolate, and not nearly enough gin."

A life well-lived, and books well-written. She'll be greatly missed.

What I'm Reading: July Edition

A recent trip the library found me laden with a stack of mysteries, most of which were historicals. I've started with Nicola Upson's Fear in the Sunlight, the fourth book in her series in which Golden Age mystery writer Josephine Tey is featured as not-so-amateur sleuth.

As Tey is one of my favorite mystery writers, I was drawn to this series immediately. What's fun about this entry is the appearance of Alfred Hitchcock and his wife Alma, who play pivotal roles in the story. Upson skillfully captures the setting of England between the wars, and has nailed Hitchcock, both as a man and a director. Though the murder scenes are a bit graphic for my taste, I love the complexity of Upson's work. And how cool is that cover?

 

Next up is G. M. Malliet's Wicked Autumn, the first entry in her Max Tudor series. Max is a former MI-5 agent-turned-vicar in a small English village. When the universally unpopular Wanda Batton-Smythe ends up dead, Max finds himself involved. I'm a fan of Malliet's Inspector St. Just mysteries, and I'm excited to dive into Max's adventures in quaint Nether Monkslip. I'm also hoping Malliet has a love interest lined up for the attractive vicar!  Malliet's work hearkens back to Golden Age writers like Christie and Sayers--perfect comfort reads.

 Finally, Jacqueline Winspear's latest Maisie Dobbs mystery, Leaving Everything Most Loved, features private investigator Dobbs looking into the disappearance of an Indian woman in 1930s London. I'm intrigued to see how Winspear handles the issues of class and race, and if she resolves Maisie's complicated love life. (Can I say here that I don't love James Compton as a partner for Maisie? Is there not an attractive Scotland Yard inspector out there for her?)

As one who harbors a secret wish to write historical mysteries, these writers serve as real inspiration--and a great distraction from my deadline!

Adriana, My Paesana

I open Adriana Trigiani's books with trembling hands--not because I can't wait to read, though that's true--but because her work is so familiar and terrific and I wish I'd written it myself. Her city settings and Italian-American characters resonate so deeply with me that I wish I could just call her up and chat. (Also, her book covers are to die for.)

This month, appropriately enough, I'm reading the first two books of her Valentine trilogy. I started with Very Valentine, which introduces us to Valentine and her hilarious family, all of whom are instantly recognizable to me. There's a crazy family wedding, a sexy Italian chef, and even sexier Italian shoes.

Now I'm on to Brava, Valentine, in which Valentine takes over the family shoe business and takes up with a hunky Italian tanner. (Not the Jersey Shore variety. He works with leather.)

Trigiani hits the sweet spot in women's fiction: her stories are funny, heartfelt, and smart. Beyond that, she markets herself wisely and takes great care of her fans.

So brava, Adriana. You're an inspiration to the rest of us.

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.

♥ ♥ ♥

Why I (Still) Love Nora Ephron

I wrote this post two years ago in honor of Nora Ephron, and today seems like an appropriate time to re-post it. I will miss her. Nora Ephron is my biggest girl crush. My biggest fantasy lunch date. And my biggest influence and inspiration as a writer—when I’m strugging, I often think: WWND? (What Would Nora Do?) This week’s New Yorker did a lovely piece on her, accompanied by a gorgeous photo that in no way suggested she needs to feel bad about any part of her anatomy. The story was about Julie and Julia, her new film, whose trailers I have been watching on line. I’ve been following Ephron’s career since I read Crazy Salad in college. Heartburn has a special place on my bookshelf, and to this day, I hate Carl Bernstein. And like so many women, I am a rabid fan of her films. And I don’t want to hear that they can be saccharine, that things too often turn on coincidence, that characters extricate themselves from situations and relationships with little effort, and that the cities she creates on screen are fantasy places that don’t really exist. I know. That’s exactly what I love about them. (There are few things that make me happier than watching a back-to-back reruns of Sleepless in Seattle in my pj’s while eating chocolate chips out of a bag.) Ephron is the kind of writer who makes you feel as though you know her. She’s smart and funny and unafraid to be both feminist and feminine. She can piss off Rush Limbaugh and still look good doing it. She can be insightful and incisive about any number of political issues, but still admit that Obama’s loose-fitting tie in one of the debates distracted her. She can play with the big boys, but she never underestimates the power of a good meal—or a good haircut, for that matter. And in so much of her work, she tells the often unpolitically correct truth about what women think and feel—open up to any page of I Feel Bad About My Neck; watch the scene in Sleepless when Rosie O’Donnell tells Meg Ryan: “You don’t want love. You want movie love.” (Damn right, Nora.) But we also want our place in the world, a theme Ephron explores in her new film, Julie and Julia, in which a young writer, Julie Powell, realizes her dream through the inspiration of the more famous and successful woman, Julia Child. Ephron doesn’t know it, but her film is a version of a movie I’ve already made in my head—a never-to-be-released little fantasy called Nora and Rosemary. . . (This post originally appeared on Red Room.)

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You Tell 'Em, Alice

March is women's history month, and to kick things off I'm sharing a great little gem from Alice Duer Miller, a journalist-turned-novelist who used humor to get her point across:

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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.

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