A deeply poetic, riveting debut novel. Once you enter this world, you won't want to leave until the last mystery is solved.
Odd things happen in Kiminee, Illinois. Lilacs bloom in winter. Gravel glows golden on occasion. Pigs play kick the can. So when Carly Mae Foley learns to read at age two and masters multiplication at age three, the town’s quirky, tight-knit denizens take it in stride and embrace her with pride. But when a terrible twister tears through, Carly Mae is maimed, dashing hopes for her future. Her father is swept away and assumed dead. And her mother slinks off after creeping, naked, with her lover from the remains of a ruined home. It’s up to Carly Mae’s grandmother and a devoted, one-eared dog to hold what’s left of the family together. But not everyone is rooting for them, and when an appalling crime occurs, long-held animosities boil over. Will the good folks of Kiminee pull closer together now—or be torn apart?
Influenced by folklore and magical realism, The Kiminee Dream is a lyrical story with characters equally charmed and challenged while living where the ordinary and miraculous coexist seamlessly. It is also a multi-generational Midwest tale about a family torn apart by tragedy and secrets, and how they come together again. If you like depth as well as whimsy, arresting twists, and details that rouse your senses, you’ll love what is both an eloquent exploration of acceptance and a tender tribute to the people of Illinois.
I recall many a summer's potluck from my youth in the Midwest. The fare was predictable: hot dogs, baked beans, potato salad, deviled eggs, jello salad, potato chips and onion dip, casseroles made from leftovers, chocolate brownies, and the like. But the food wasn't the real draw, though it was fun to see what each family brought and hear stories of kitchen mishaps that led to some singed or otherwise odd concoctions. The real draw was the sense of community. In the fictional town of Kiminee the bonds of love are similar to those I experienced, only stronger. Weary like everyone else I know of the COVID-19 pandemic, I look forward to the days when simple summer potlucks are routine and safe again.
Where would we be without friends? Through good times and bad, they see us through and vice versa. Just thinking of dear friends, some of whom now live far away from me, brightens my spirits and brings a smile to my face. That goes for friends who live only blocks away but whom I see on Zoom instead of in person because of the pandemic. The bonds remain strong no matter what. The lifelong friends in this excerpt from The Kiminee Dream's fourth chapter don't gush over each other, but their actions and banter show just how close they are.
Most of us have probably left a place at some point in our lives for what we expected would be the last time. I remember when I was eighteen having my clothes (I didn't have many) spread out on my bed, dresser and rug and draped over curtain rods so I could see all of them and decide what to take with me and what to discard when I left my childhood home. This brief excerpt from The Kiminee Dream's third chapter describes a similar point in the life of Velda, one of the book's central characters. She was in her twenties and left everything behind—even her children.
I have fond childhood memories of summertime. The biggest thing was NO SCHOOL from mid-June till after Labor Day. How I loved playing outside in the heat with my sisters and neighborhood friends from morning until the streetlights came on in the evening. We only came inside for meals, to practice piano and do a few chores—and raced back out as quickly as possible. And while tragedy did strike our family, it never came in June, July or August. It was in the chill of autumn when we were brought to our knees. Not so for the Foley family in my first novel, The Kiminee Dream. One summer day described in Chapter 2 brought an event that changed their lives forever.
Previously, I shared The Kiminee Dream's prologue and excerpts from the book's first chapter. Since it's been a little while since I've shared an excerpt from the book, instead of sharing only the remaining section of the first chapter I'll share the entire chapter. I hope that will make it easier for you, the reader, wherever you are in the world. There's something about all of us from very different walks of life being able to communicate with each other that is a true benefit of being alive in the world today. And it's good to be reminded of things that connect us during the trying times we're in due to COVID-19 itself and all of its repercussions.
This excerpt continues The Kiminee Dream where the last book bubble left off. It introduces Jasper and Emily, who are among the key characters in the novel, and reveals a bit more about Carly Mae's mother, Velda, another important character. I don't know how it will work to present the novel in pieces like this, but I'm trying it out. I hope you'll let me know how it works for you. I wonder whether the excerpts should be longer. What do you think? Please contact me via my website, https://lauramchaleholland.com, if you have ideas about how serializing The Kiminee Dream here can work best.
This excerpt is from the The Kiminee Dream's first chapter, which follows the prologue featured in the book's first book bubble. It introduces a town loaded with quirky characters and one extraordinary girl who seems capable of anything and everything. I like books with vivid details and unique characters, such as One Good Mama Bone by Bren McClain, which I'm reading now. It drew me right in when I started reading it last night. I know I'm going to put all sorts of things on my to-do list aside to get back to it. I hope The Kiminee Dream is the kind of book that pulls you in, too.
This is the first Book Bubble I'm writing for The Kiminee Dream. I published it two days ago, and I'm thrilled but also at a loss for words. Does it make sense to release a novel in the midst of the COVID-19 crisis? I don't know, but I have heard that many fine people stuck at home are reading now more than ever. I hope that you are faring well during these uncertain times and that the book description and prologue whet your appetite. I also hope The Kiminee Dream provides you several hours of reading pleasure. Will it leave a lasting positive impression? I hope you'll let me know via the contact info at the end of the book.
Elegant, haunting, beautiful prose in short, short stories to savor and share. Imagine a world where shadows of enchantment instantly render ordinary experiences eerie, terrifying or sublime, and where the unexpected becomes the norm. The twenty-one micro stories in Laura McHale Holland’s Just in Case comprise such a place: a universe where a wife betrayed relishes her revenge; a couple chugging toward retirement takes a surprising U-turn; a much maligned character finally has his say; a cozy family scene chills the blood; a curious relative cannot leave a half-human baby alone. The short stories in this collection contain layers of meaning hidden in metaphor, revealed in raw emotion and arresting in their sudden intimacy. Magical, yet grounded this is flash fiction at its best by an author who know how to pack a gratifying punch and leave the reader hankering for more.
The narrator's voice in this story is so strong that I've thought of writing more about the two main characters. It was just one news story about a tragedy that got the seed of this tale planted in my mind, and it kept pulling at my attention until I wrote it down and polished it. That's often how stories begin for me: a scene will come to mind and stay there until I do something about it. Sometimes the idea pans out; sometimes it ends up just being a few scribbled pages in my journal that don't gel.
I love how memories and things circling through my mind intertwine when I'm writing. The part of this story that comes from my experience is raccoons in a tree. When my daughter was small we had an avocado tree in our backyard. One evening a group of about six raccoons climbed into its branches, some of which were inches from our deck railing. They were perfectly still and staring at my daughter who was playing on the deck. I stepped out and slowly pulled her inside when she called me to come see them. The rest of the story is loosely based on friends who were having difficulties with their aging mothers at the time. My own mother died young, so I didn't share their experiences.
In April, I took a series of micro fiction workshops on Zoom with Meg Pokrass, a luminary in the world of flash fiction whose work I admire. I also admire the supportive way she conducts workshops. The Saturday sessions gave me the urge to write micro stories again. I've been so busy getting a novel ready for publication, I've hardly had time to write anything new. Now that the novel is out, maybe I'll write more little gems, each one a full story in few words. If I do, none will be quite like "Talisman," the story featured in this bubble. Flash fiction stories are like snowflakes, each one unique, and one author can exhibit an exhilarating range of emotion and style.
When John Prine's first album came out, I would pass a row of park benches every day where old folks would sit quietly and feed pigeons. They always seemed lonesome to me, and Prine's song "Hello in There" captured so perfectly what I imagined their plight was. I would smile in passing if they looked up, but I never stopped and said hello even after falling in love with the song. Was I just shy? I don't know. In light of Prine's passing due to complications from COVID-19, I'm thinking of how precious life is, how we all matter, whatever our age and walk in life. And the story I'm sharing this week shines a light on an elderly couple going through a huge transition.
Safe and warm. Unable to concentrate. I've been ill for going on two weeks now, gradually recovering from what is either the flu or COVID-19. By phone, a doctor said even if it is the coronavirus bringing me down, my case is likely to be mild, which is turning out to be the case. But. It's. All. So. Scary. I jump from news site to news site, which is doing nothing to lift my mood or speed my recovery. So, I picked a little story from "Just in Case" that's on the funny side today. Taking a traditional story and changing the point of view can lead to surprising results. I hope this brings you a smile.
At my laptop, two tiny dogs napping at my feet, cozy in a comfy living room, I pause, uncertain what to say in a book bubble when we're facing so much uncertainty worldwide at this moment in time. Most of us are doing some form of social distancing to help "flatten the curve" so cases of the novel coronavirus do not spike. I hope our efforts make a difference and that we are all kind to each other as we go through what comes together. I've never written about a pandemic or any other kind of worldwide crisis. I tend to focus on interactions between individuals. Today, I'm sharing a story that usually gives folks a good laugh when I tell it. I hope this tale gives you some moments of enjoyment.
Long ago, I used to write songs. I suffered from stage fright, as well as from being far too impatient about my musical ability. I always wanted to be better than I was, rather than accept my current level of mastery and build from there. I gave up on song writing long ago, but the time put in on that art form was well spent. I learned how to be succinct, packing a lot of meaning into few words. This continues to pay off when I write micro fiction. I also think it's a skill anyone with a love of language can develop with practice.
We were among the millions of people who were without power for several days (five days for us) as part of Pacific Gas & Electric's efforts to limit potential damage during an extreme wind event in extra dry conditions that caused a fire to rage about 17 miles from our home. Sometimes, however, power goes out for other reasons. I don't know what brought the scene in this micro story to mind before I wrote it—my subconscious, maybe? Often picturing a scene gets me thinking, what if? And a story is born. This one is titled "Before."
"I'll Have To Tell Him" is a quick read, but it's one of the longest stories in JUST IN CASE. It's also a story I tell sometimes instead of reading it. Liberating a tale from the page and letting it change a little bit in the telling while interacting with the audience is a dynamic way to bring a story to life. And I love embodying this character, who has a lot to say about her life with her husband, Bernie, in a little town called North Bend. She might come knocking again some morning while I'm writing, telling me she has more to say. Does she pique your imagination? Would you like to hear more from her?
Quite a while after I wrote this little story I learned that in some writing circles, using fairytales and folk tales as springboards for short fiction is frowned upon. That notion surprised me. The rationale, according to the article I read, is that re-writing traditional stories or using fairytale characters in new contexts is overdone. In any event, I expect that won't stop me from writing stories like Cold Case in the future, and I hope it doesn't interfere with your enjoyment of them either.
Working Title: Just in Case
This Book Is In Development
Imagine a world where shadows of enchantment instantly render ordinary experiences eerie, terrifying or sublime, and where the unexpected becomes the norm. The twelve short-short stories in Laura McHale Holland’s Just in Case comprise a universe where a wife betrayed relishes a savage revenge; a much maligned character finally has his say; a cozy family scene chills the blood; a couple chugging toward retirement takes a bold U-turn; a curious relative cannot leave a half-human, half-Big Foot baby alone; and more. The dark, often revealing themes in this collection marry exquisitely with the precise flash fiction form, offering a full reading experience in few words. If you enjoy engaging, short reads with deliciously poetic prose, plenty of imagery, and context left to the imagination, you’ll love the concise gems found in Just in Case.
At only forty-five words, "Before" is one of the shortest stories I've written. All of this story is included in this "book bubble"—except for the last four words. And when it comes to flash fiction, four words can completely alter the story's impact. It could be funny, poignant, thrilling or terrifying. You'll be able to see how I chose to end this story when it's published in August. And you'll be able to grab a free ebook version by signing up for my newsletter at http://lauramchaleholland.com. In the meantime, if you had to end this story by adding four words, what would they be?
This is one of the new stories included in "Just In Case," a collection of flash fiction. The book manuscript is now complete, and I'm planning to give the ebook to people who sign up for my newsletter at http://lauramchaleholland.com. A paperback will also be available for sale. I formatted the ebook myself using Vellum software, and a designer is creating the print version layout this week. When I know how many pages the print version of this little (4" x 6") book will be, I'll let the designer who created the front cover know, and she'll design the spine and back cover. It's exciting to have this book almost ready to release. If you have the opportunity to read it, I hope you'll get in touch to let me know what you think.
Poetic devices can help stories convey emotions, relationships and scenes in few words. I plan to include "Drifting," a story from "The Ice Cream Vendor's Song," in this collection because I think it's a good example of this. A poet once brought it to a class of young poets she was instructing. She said it would inspire them to explore. I was honored and gave the OK. One of the great things about publishing today is that authors get to make so many decisions. I just heard from the editor I picked for this new collection. She's finished reviewing the manuscript, we'll meet soon. The book is one step closer to being done.
I think parents or guardians who harm or neglect their children instead of nurturing them tend to be isolated. There are exceptions, of course, but these inept people often don't have family, friends or neighbors to turn to when things get tough, don't have groups they gather with to socialize or worship, don't know of mental health professionals or hot lines that could help when they feel they can't go on. They withdraw from resources instead of engage, pretend all is well when it isn't, lash out at vulnerable children instead of helping them grow into productive, happy adults. This flash fiction story depicts one such family.
I stumbled upon this story, which I wrote a few years ago and sent in a newsletter to members of my readers group. I'd forgotten all about it. I am now considering it for inclusion in "Just in Case." Picking stories for a collection reminds me a little of choosing songs for a performance set. I wrote songs for a time in my youth and would perform occasionally (when I could get over my stage fright). I would spend quite a while considering which songs to include and what order they should be in. I'd envision as best I could the emotional journey the songs were likely to take the audience on. It involved a lot of guesswork. I think the same is true of organizing a collection of stories.
Most of us live in communities with resources we can turn to when we're in need of help. Sometimes, though, it's almost impossible to reach out for help because of lack of information or fears of possible repercussions. The two sisters in this story, titled "Nephew," are in a true crisis. One of them is about to make a decision, knowing their lives will be forever altered. What is the most difficult decision you've ever had to make?
This is an offbeat story from "The Ice Cream Vendor's Song," a collection of 46 short, short tales I published several years ago. I'm including four stories from that collection in "Just In Case." Originally, I thought the new book would hold just 12 stories, but it's been growing. Right now, I've got 21 stories in the manuscript, most of which are brand new. I have more polishing to do before getting this little book to an editor. After receiving feedback, I'll probably remove the weakest two or three. When presenting my work to a group, I love telling this story rather than reading it because I get to take on the narrator's persona. I hope you enjoy this story, as well as thoughts I've shared on bringing a new story collection to life.
This story is so new I haven't even taken it to my weekly critique group yet. I enjoy and am committed to crafting the very best work I can before I publish. Part of that is working with other writers, sharing writing with one another regularly, then working with an editor, or sometimes editors, who can see new things to consider when creating and polishing a manuscript. I don't know how much this story will change before I publish this collection. It depends on the feedback I receive and what I glean from it. Do you enjoy giving feedback on stories? I will welcome yours.
I just wrote this story today and took it to my critique group. I received some excellent feedback, refined a few things and am sharing it here. All in one day. Things don't usually happen that quickly or easily. I feel lucky and think "Rose Petals" will be a good addition to this book. Do you agree? I considered titling the story "Red," but settled on "Rose Petals" instead. Do you think it suits the story? ... Initially I thought the book would contain a dozen stories, but now I'm thinking of including more, maybe fifteen or so.
This is the first half of "I'll Have to Tell Him," one of my favorite stories in the collection titled "The Ice Cream Vendor's Song," which I published several years ago. I'll probably include it in this little book, too. Sometimes a character's voice will come through to me with such clarity, it feels like I'm just listening and recording what the character is saying. Occasionally, I tell this story live. This means I liberate it from the page, memorizing key parts of it and the overall shape of the story, but letting some things change in the moment to create an entirely new experience for teller and listener. After reading this excerpt, are you curious about why good-natured Bernie is down in the dumps?
This little book, Just in Case, is going to be a collection of short short stories, some of which have been published previously, some of which are brand new. I published this story, Still There, in my flash fiction collection titled The Ice Cream Vendor's Song. It also appeared in the anthology No Contest, published by Redwood Writers. I'm uncertain whether I should include it in this collection or write something new that's just as good. There's always a little fear running in the back of my mind that I won't be able to create anything new that's worthwhile. Does that happen to you, too? I think I'll write a few more stories and leave decisions about what to include till a bit later down the road.
I love reading and writing very short stories. Do you? They're easy to dip into when you don't have time for or aren't in the mood for a long read. Their effects, however, can linger long after the stories are read. People call this form flash fiction, micro fiction and short-short fiction. When this tiny collection is finished, the ebook version will become the new gift I give to folks who join my readers group via my website, http://lauramchaleholland.com. I'll also make it available for sale in electronic and print formats—and maybe even audio too. Since it will be a small book, doing an audio version might not be as daunting.
Sisters Born, Sisters Found: A Diversity of Voices on Sisterhood reveals the core of female hearts, divulges secrets, and captures poignant, compelling, complex relationships. This vibrant collection of work from across the globe isn’t only about blood sisters or women who like each other. Sisters can bond over movie nights. Stuff snails down each other’s throats. Steal each other’s clothes—and lovers. Scrounge for food together, tell stories together, work magic together—even kill together. Seventy-six gifted writers explore all of this and more is in the memoirs, short stories, essays and poems that form Sisters Born, Sisters Found.
Something I love about anthologies is that you can skip around, skimming until you find something that draws you in and takes you away. I find different stories or poems speak to me at different times. Sometimes a good laugh is just what the doctor ordered; sometimes a gut punch is what it takes to make me feel less alone. Today, I was drawn in by Mara Buck's short memoir, "Mirror." It eloquently expresses a kind of longing most of us have felt to greater or lesser degrees at various points in our lives. There is an honesty to this piece, too, that grips me.
Lyrical memoirs, poignant poems, stories of laugh-out-loud foibles, heart-wrenching admissions, triumphs over adversity, regrets and resolutions. A universe of experiences connected to sisterhood can be found in Sisters Born, Sisters Found. Even an in-depth essay on a gruesome crime. This excerpt from Delphine Cingal's "Sisters in Blood" takes us back to a crime that shocked the world in 1933, before most of us were even born. It's been a while since I've read this book, but with concerns about coronavirus on my mind, this weekend might be just the time to settle in with a cuppa tea and peruse its varied contents. Want to join me?
When a friend from high school learned via Facebook that I was collecting memoirs, stories, poems and essays for an anthology on sisterhood, he asked if I would consider publishing his mother's memoir posthumously. His mom, Mary J. Kohut, had the kind of childhood that could have turned her bitter, but Mary came through it sane and solid with an abundance of love to give. Her memoir, "Echoes From the Heart" takes the reader on a moving journey as she learns her hunch she once had a baby sister was true, despite denials on the part of the nuns caring for her. Did she ever find her sister? The answer is in the book.
While sharing a table with an author friend at holiday festivals in the last few weeks, I ran out of copies of the Sisters Born, Sisters Found anthology. People (women and men) who have sisters or close women friends, or who know people who do, pick it up and thumb through the pages, often delighted to find the variety of writing styles and perspectives it contains. I'm over the moon to know some folks will find this book wrapped and ribboned for them under their Christmas trees. The book contains memoir, poetry, fiction and essays. This excerpt is a poem by Nancy Cook, one of six sisters who congregate during the holidays every year.
With Thanksgiving fast approaching in the United States, I am full of gratitude for so many things. This excerpt features a poem by Karen Benke, one of 76 memoirists, essayists, fiction writers and poets who contributed to Sisters Born, Sisters Found. Writers from every continent except Antarctica contributed stories and reflections on both blood sisters and friends so close they feel like sisters. I'm so grateful to all of them. This excerpt is especially meaningful to me now, because my second granddaughter was born in August, and her big sister couldn't wait to hold her, hug her, kiss her. The book captures moments that cross an emotional spectrum, and when I sell books at holiday fairs, both men and women purchase it to give to their own sisters born and sisters found.
Podcaster and poet Charlene Jones asked me yesterday whether I write poetry. I replied that I do write poems occasionally, but I don't consider myself to be a poet. That said, I do love poetry and included many poems in the anthology Sisters Born, Sisters Found. Similar to flash fiction in certain respects, poems say so much in few words, sometimes opening up new worlds to us in surprising ways. This poem by Joanna captures an aspect of sister relationships that, I think, many of us can relate to. Joanna's bio following the poem is from 2016, so it's a little out of date.
I think this poem, "Behind the Eyes," by Wilda Morris is an eloquent reminder of how often we make assumptions without even realizing it, and how eye-opening it is when we realize someone's experience is or was different than we'd thought it was. Do you have siblings? Did you make assumptions about them that you later found out weren't at all accurate? I have two sisters and made many assumptions about them that weren't correct. It was a delightful surprise to find out they were actually thinking kinder thoughts about me than I ever imagined.
The Ceremony, Skye Blaine's contribution to the Sisters Born, Sisters Found anthology, recounts a time when a friend so close that she became like a sister supported her during a difficult experience. Together, they shared a moment of transition. While our life experiences all differ, I think we've all had such moments, whether with a sister (or brother) born into the same family or one found along the way who became family. I can't imagine life without these wonderful people who bring joy during ordinary times and grace when our chips are down.
The moment I read Loons by C.R. Resetarits, I knew I would include the story in the Sisters Born, Sisters Found anthology, which holds not only a diversity of voices on sisterhood, but also a diversity of styles and genres. There's a unique kind of intrigue to C.R.'s work. She is rooted in the here and now, but she also brings in below-the-surface dimensions that entice you to immerse yourself in the story's world, a quality that enhances the power of short fiction. I feel I can almost reach out and touch the characters C.R. has brought to us in Loons.
Do you know anyone who grew up with siblings who didn't get into fights with them—some so intense, parents became involved, for good or ill? This hilarious excerpt from Sara Catalina Dorame Bard's contribution to "Sisters Born, Sisters Found" is likely to bring back memories for some of you along these lines, and, I hope, amuse those of you who didn't have a sibling who tricked you and humiliated you on occasion. And to digress a bit, based on what is going on in the United States at the time I'm writing this, it seems our leaders in Washington are acting more like the girls in this memoir than the leaders they were elected to be. And there's no parent to run to.
No matter what we may have lost or missed in the past, this short memoir by Paige Adams Strickland is a great reminder of how important this very moment is. She found a birth family that includes siblings she never shared holidays with in her youth. She could have been stuck in resentment about that, but she moved forward and has an expanded family to celebrate with now. I hope your days are joyous this holiday season while you do those extra things that make the holidays fun. I'm signing off now to bake muffins to give to our neighbors and then wrap presents.
This book bubble shares an excerpt from Sister Act, a short memoir of Christmas that Vicki Batman contributed to Sisters Born, Sisters Found. It's the kind of writing that takes you back to childhood with her and tickles your funny bone while also touching your emotions in a tender way. I don't have room to include the memoir in its entirety, but I hope there's enough here to warm your heart and bring to mind some of your own fond memories. I realize we don't all have happy memories. The anthology as a whole presents a range of perspectives and emotions in memoir, poetry, short fiction and narrative nonfiction.
Paradise, California is on fire; 175 miles away, we shudder at the memory of fires that ripped through our community last year, a devastation many are still struggling to recover from. South of here, 430 miles or so, people in Thousand Oaks are grieving after the gunning down of a dozen young people who were enjoying a night out at a country bar. And through my tears, I am reminded of how resilient we human are. People rebuild after fires; striken families work together to prevent further violence. Mary J. Kohut's memoir excerpted here reminds me of that resilience. She had such a sad start in life, yet grew up to have a happy life and marriage, and raised five beautiful children. She maintained a purity of heart that shone through all her days. Her son submitted the memoir on her behalf long after she'd passed away. It was done on a typewriter and tucked away for years.
When the world seems tense, confusing, trying, topsy turvy, and downright mean, a poem can help us pause, breathe deeply and be reminded of the world's beauty, the wonder of relationships and the many other blessings in our lives, small and large. Re-reading "Pink Moment" by Dianalee Velee uplifted me today. I hope it brings you pleasure, as well.
This excerpt from Dipika Kohli's essay "The Truth of It" recounts in eloquent detail the subtle and not-so-subtle feelings she wrestled with when faced with a gut-wrenching decision during her first pregnancy. It was a time she had anticipated would be joyous and affirming, but it turned out to be the opposite. She made a choice. Some of us would have reached the same decision had we been in her shoes; others would not have. Can we learn to live side by side with those with whom we disagree?
This excerpt from Karen Levy's exquisite memoir "Unlikely Sisters" speaks to the human bond that transcends differences that often feel too great to overcome. In this time of divisiveness in the United States, I sometimes return to this memoir and other contributions to the Sisters Born, Sisters Found anthology because they remind me of our common humanity, our strength of spirit, our ability to overcome and continue on our paths in life in a spirit of acceptance and even joy. – Karen Levy is an Israeli-American writer who spent her childhood traveling between her native land and the United States.
I have two sisters, and while I know it's next to impossible that we'll all die at the same time, I do not want to contemplate what life would be like without them. They are two of the biggest blessings in my life. That isn't the case for all sisters, though. This excerpt from "Outside the Circle" by Ana Manwaring reveals a sisterhood experience that is the opposite of mine, one both harmful and bitter. If I'd experienced something like this, I don't know how forgiving I'd be able to be. How about you?
I love the way this memoir excerpt by Maria de Lourdes Victoria pulls the reader in with the first sentence: "Nobody knows how to make lentil soup like my sister." The statement expresses feelings of pride similar to those many of us feel about people we hold dear, yet it is also specific to Maria's life experience and relationship with her sister. Then, the story unfolds in a lyrical way, as Maria takes readers back to her childhood, revealing beauty of heart and soul that makes me want to read more and more. I hope you feel the same. Maria is an international, award-winning, bilingual author. She writes novels, short stories and bilingual children’s books. Her second novel, Beyond Justice (Más Allá de la Justicia), took third place for the prestigious Planeta Book Award, 2010.
When I read Marie Millard's short memoir "Flotation Device," I knew right away I wanted to include it in this anthology. Marie, who is also an accomplished musician, has many skills as a writer, one of which is the ability to tickle our funny bones in delightful ways. In this piece, she also captures something universal about being a teenage girl. When I visualize the scenes she's created, I feel like I'm floating right down the river with lovable, ill-prepared Marie and her sister.
This excerpt from Sisters Born, Sisters Found is a short memoir by Jean Wong, an award-winning author whose plays, poems and other short works have been produced locally in San Francisco's North Bay region many times. In her work, she deftly draws readers in with a combination of humor, an eye for telling details and the ability to convey deeper emotions that illuminate issues without getting preachy about them. I was delighted to accept this piece for inclusion in this anthology.
Working with 76 writers from around the world to curate, edit and publish the anthology Sisters Born, Sisters Found: A Diversity of Voices on Sisterhood was one of the most rewarding projects I've ever taken on. The memoirs, short stories, essays and poems about sisters born into the same family, as well as dear friends who formed sister bonds, create a fascinating whole. Our notions of who and what sisters are, are rooted in our own experiences. Bringing this book to life opened my eyes to the many nuances and rich diversity of perspectives that exist on sisterhood. This excerpt is a memoir by Olivia Boler titled "Greyhound Station." Olivia is a novelist living in San Francisco.
On the verge of losing his children after his wife ends her life, a desperate father remarries in haste to reunite his family. It's the 1950s. He is Catholic. Suicide is a sin. He tells his three little girls his new wife is their mother. Laura, a toddler, finds the woman strange and surprisingly bitter, but she trusts her father. Mommy must have changed, she thinks, like dough baking turns into bread. The truth, kept secret, festers. Years later, Laura's father is dying. His wife promises to love his girls as her own. Instead, she grows increasingly sadistic and vile. No one can stop her from doing harm. Nevertheless, Laura and her sisters are not defeated. Their father's wish that they stay together comes true, although not in the way he'd imagined. Reversible Skirt, a memoir, is the tender telling of a little girl's odyssey through an abusive childhood. If you like honest voices, characters that crackle with life, exquisite language, and true stories of strength in the face of adversity, you'll love Laura McHale Holland's heart-wrenching testament to the power of forgiveness and love.
Before I entered first grade my family moved from a city to a suburb, and it was culture shock. I made friends the first day of school with a girl who'd been sitting at a table by herself until I arrived. We became inseparable. But after months of being shunned for this friendship, I dumped my one and only girlfriend. I think it's the meanest thing I've ever done. I wish I'd had the courage to do the right thing, to not try to blend in with the crowd, to not look the other way when it came to shutting people out. I didn't know what racism was at the time, but this experience is one example of how it was and continues to be perpetuated.
I almost didn't do a Book Bubble today. I tend to worry a lot, and the loss of lives and livelihoods caused by COVID-19 is so extremely distressing. I surely hope we all come through it able to land on our feet, pull together and thrive to the best of our ability, despite the losses. Sometimes it's good to escape to another time and place through a good story, whether its in a book, movie or bingeable Netflix TV series. The excerpt I'm sharing today goes way back to my childhood, a time when all was not well in my family, but love was there nonetheless, and that love was a lifeline for me. I hope we all give and receive love aplenty in these days.
When I was young, I adored my father. He was superhuman—dazzling, fun, strong, invincible. So I thought. But then he entered the hospital shortly after my eleventh birthday. This memoir excerpt is from that time. It never crossed my mind that he would not get better because he was always bursting with life. It was a shock when my uncle walked through our from door, our grandmother on her arm, and told my sisters and me that our father was dead. At first, I could not believe it. The period that followed was one of the darkest of my life, but I did realize that the people I love are the most important thing in life to me, and letting them know that is my priority.
I'm fending off a cold, and if you've ever come down with a cold during the holidays, you know how frustrating that can be. At times when I need to rest, I enjoy getting drawn into a good book. I can usually tell if a book is for me by reading the first several paragraphs. Occasionally, I'll be disappointed, but most of the time I'm not. This excerpt shares the beginning of Reversible Skirt, a memoir written from my point of view as a child (as accurately as I could re-create it as an adult). When you read the opening, I think you'll know if this book is for you. I hope you enjoy it and wish you a joyous holiday season. I'd love it if you'd let me know what you think at http://lauramchaleholland.com.
After a beloved parent passes away prematurely, Christmas and other holidays can be especially lonely for family members left behind. And if the surviving parent is abusive, the holidays can become far more than lonely; they can be riddled with feelings of hopelessness and despair for the children. This excerpt recounts part of one Christmas Day after my father died. Our stepmother had no inkling what a balm a little bit of loving kindness could be. My sisters and I couldn't look to her for comfort. Where would we find it?
Halloween is coming up, and while I mostly enjoy seeing the creative decorations people display, the corn mazes, the excitement young people feel when picking out costumes, and all the little princesses, pirates, brides, super heroes, and more swarming sidewalks as they go door to door, there is an undercurrent of sadness for me too. Halloween is the day my mother killed herself. My sisters and I were at a party, and we found her when we came home. We were at the time too young to know what death was, and no one in our family attempted to explain to us what had happened. It's not like this experience ruined the holiday for me. It was so long ago and life has been so good overall. But it's not like the pain is erased either. This excerpt from Reversible Skirt recounts moments in childhood when I was beginning to piece together what had happened.
I was drawn to an excerpt from Reversible Skirt today when thinking about the trying times we face today on many fronts — and what a huge difference the love of even just one person can make. My sisters and I lived with my grandmother and uncle for a short time after my mother's suicide. I was small enough to fit snugly on her lap while she fed me fruit cocktail in her living room. I recently inherited the pair of straight-backed upholstered chairs, one of which is the very chair we would sit on while she talked gently to me and got me interested in eating again. The chairs were lovingly cared for over the years by my uncle and maintain their exquisite lines. I see them every day now and remember what a huge difference love makes in a child's ability to cope.
A wonderfully positive person in my life has been Unc, my uncle John, who recently passed away at age 98. I miss him so very much but will always appreciate having had him in my life so long. This excerpt gives an example of how he looked out fo rmy sisters and me after our father passed away, and we were young, abused by our stepmother and confused.
Sadly, Uncle John, "Unc," passed away two weeks ago. He has been important to my sisters and me all of our lives, and we will miss him greatly, but we also appreciate that he lived 98-1/2 good years. He was the most generous person I've ever met. This excerpt shows one of the ways he looked out for us after our father died and we were left in the care of our stepmother, who was rapidly spiraling downward and not up to the task of caring for three orphaned girls. I will always be grateful for Unc's love.
I grew up in the Chicago area and during this week when temperatures have plunged far below zero across the Midwest, I can't help but think of children who might be unnecessarily harmed during this extreme weather. Most parents want to keep their children safe and warm, but there are some whose hearts seem to have frozen more solid than the ground outside. My stepmother was one such parent. She seemed to take pleasure in our misery, forcing us to the edge of physcal torture. I am grateful such lost souls are in the minority and I hope someday no child will ever suffer at the hands of someone who cannot refrain from doing harm.
I stopped in to pick up a few things at Oliver's Market, a community-minded grocery store nearby. Just inside the door were two barrels: one for warm coats, the other for non-perishable food. It reminded me I need to contribute to those drives, as well as to a few other local charities that make a huge difference in the lives of those who are suffering. I am fortunate that the holiday season is filled with laugher and love for me, and it's been that way for a long time. In childhood, however, I felt hopeless. My stepmother was incapable of caring for my sisters and me, and we were desperate. This excerpt is from Christmas morning when I was thirteen, two years after my father's death. If you donate food, you might ease a mother's stress and enable her to hug instead of harm her children if only for a day; if you donate a toy, you might bring a child you'll never meet many hours of delight.
Powerful voices make all the difference to me when I settle in to read a book. That's also what makes the difference to me as an author. After I made the commitment to write my first memoir, Reversible Skirt, it wasn't long before a littlel girl's voice came through; it was my young child self (as close as imagination could recreate her) demanding my attention. The best decision I made was to listen to that voice. I often feel like that girl wrote the book, because she has a mission in the world that is connected to but separate from me, the adult, who has plenty of present-time concerns demanding her attention.
I published a blog post today about finding an old snapshot that fell from a nook when my husband and son-in-law were setting up a new TV. The photo is of my sisters and me when we were ages three, four and five. For most of our childhood, we shared a room that wasn't much bigger than a 9 x 10 rug. We were a unit, a tiny triumvirate. It was not a happy childhood for us, but like so many children experiencing trauma, we made the best of our difficult lives. This excerpt from Reversible Skirt recounts visits to a relative who had 27 acres where we could wander, fantasize and play, free from worries for the afternoon.
It's back to school time across the United States, which is a big adjustment for children who've had several weeks to participate in other activities—summer camp, sports and outdoor games, family vacations, lazing around. It's time to adjust to new teachers, new routines, and for some, whole new homes, communities and schools. Moving to a new community brings another layer of challenges, and for children who have already been through major disruptions and loss, even a move to a peaceful town with plenty of open space and good schools can cause distress. Did your family move when you were young? Mine did before I entered first grade, and I wasn't happy about it.
The CDC issued a report in June 2018 stating that suicide rates increased in all but one U.S. state between 1999 and 2016. In Nevada, suicides declined by 1 percent; in North Dakota, they increased by 57 percent. There were 45,000 suicides in the United States in 2016 alone. Most of those people had family, friends and acquaintances who were affected. Each situation is different, but learning the specifics of one family can provide insight into the experience as a whole. My mother's suicide did direct harm to my sisters and me; our father; my mother's four siblings, their spouses and children; both of her parents; and her mother in law—all of whom loved her dearly. Others affected were her many friends from grammar school through college, her church community, her neighbors and her co-workers. Among other things, this excerpt from Reversible Skirt shows how my mother's suicide distanced my sisters, father and me from our mother's side of the family after he remarried, causing a chasm that could eventually be bridged but never closed.
After my mother committed suicide, I was separated from my father and sisters for a time. I was just two years old and thoroughly disoriented. I stopped even attempting to use the tiny vocabulary I had. This experience left a lasting and painful mark. We were reunited when my father remarried. Unfortunately, his new wife, whom we called "Mommy," was abusive. She and my father both favored physical punishment. She also was prone to tirades and blamed my sisters and me for every ill imaginable. My heart goes out to the wee ones crying out for their mothers in detention centers at the U.S. border and beyond today. I hope they are reunited soon.
My stepmother probably didn't know what a terrible parent she would be when she married my father. I think that's true of most people who becme parents and end up harming their children. I don't think they see it coming. They do not know they are capable of becoming monsters. And the times children share with abusive parents usually aren't all bad. This makes things ever so complicated. Love is woven into the relationship along with fear, grief, shame and other negative emotions. This excerpt shows a positive aspect of my stepmother, something that captivated me and left me awestruck.
The statement 'I love Chicago,' which begins this excerpt was true when I was a child, and it remains true today. I haven't lived there for more than 30 years, but no place will ever bump that city out of my heart. One of the books I keep by my bed is Brian Doyle's novel titled (no surprise) 'Chicago.' It captures the spirit of the people living there, the way they love their friends and neighbors so deeply, so naturally. This excerpt from my childhood memoir, 'Reversible Skirt,' takes place just before our family moved from the city I adored to a suburb where I found it difficult to fit in.
People have asked me how I was able to remember so many of the details included in my childhood memoir. A scientist who studies this kind of thing would likely have an informed, articulate answer. I can only say that I think part of it is a mystery. One of my sisters and I recall quite a bit from our earliest years; the other doesn't recall much that happened in her life till she was about five years old. I found, however, that it is possible to recall more than you think you can with a bit of effort. When writing Reversible Skirt, I would sit down, relax with pen in hand and visit one memory at a time. By this I mean I pictured the scene in my imagination, viewed it from my eyes as a child and observed without trying to force anything. Vivid details like the smell of Lemon Pledge or the feeling of too much cake in my tummy or the piercing look in my stepmother's brown eyes would strike me as the actions unfolded, and I jotted down what I saw and felt. Each time I visited a memory this way, I recalled a little more.
I don't remember most of my dreams. Do you remember yours? By the time I drift into consciousness, knowledge of where I've gone in the night eludes me like the last whisps of morning fog high above. When I was small, however, I had a recurring dream. Well, it was actually a nightmare, and I've described it in this excerpt. Several years passed before I had a clue what was behind the dream. I believe this was one result of trauma my sisters and I experienced that the adults caring for us failed to help us with. In some ways, this books is a blueprint of what not to do when children you love experience trauma. What about you? Have you had recurring dreams or nightmares? Do you know what caused them?
Directly after my mother's suicide, my sisters, father and I were separated. Then we were reunited at my grandmother's home, where our uncle also lived. It had only two bedrooms. I slept with our grandmother, Kathy and Mary Ruth slept on chairs put together and piled with pillows in the dining room, our uncle slept in his bedroom, and our father slept on the living room couch. I didn't notice how crowded we were. I only cared that for a time we were well loved.
My father was strict and imposing. It was never okay to cross him, which was fairly common in families during the Fifties and Sixties when I was young. He never told me he loved me, but I think this was because he had difficulty expressing his feelings. My sisters and I were also a constant reminder of our mother, whose suicide, I believe, he never came to terms with. Jokes were his preferred form of exchange when he was in a good mood. If he was in a bad mood, his belt said it all. But somehow I knew he cared deeply about my future. He wanted the best for me, and I always adored him.
What if your mother committed suicide when you were small, and your father was so wounded he pretended she'd never existed? What if tragedy struck again, and you were left in the care of an abusive stepmother? I yearned to tell this child's story. My story. But I would begin and stop—over and over. Then, one day, the little girl I used to be came to me much like Alice Walker described characters in her novels coming to visit her for a while, and that little girl spoke the only words she knew to be true, "Gramma loves me." I followed her voice and finally wrote my childhood memoir, Reversible Skirt, because she had a lot to say.
A teenage girl breaking free. A cunning classmate on the prowl. Can she recover after they collide? Orphaned as a child, fourteen-year-old Laura finally rebels against her abusive guardian. Living on dreams, rock ’n’ roll, and kisses in moonlight. She believes whatever comes next can’t be worse than what she’s already endured. She has no idea how far she will fall before she can build a better life. Resilient Ruin: A memoir of hopes dashed and reclaimed is a poignant personal story that recounts a rocky, ultimately inspiring journey. If you like brave, unaffected heroines; striking scenes and characters; and reversals that keep you turning page after page, you’ll relish this masterful memoir of survival and learning to forgive.
Some parents aren't capable of sending their children off to school with a hug and an, "I love you. Have a good day." In all the years I lived with my stepmother, she never did anything remotely like that. And by the time I reached high school, her verbal abuse wasn't just getting under my skin; it was festering there, making it more and more difficult for me to function. This excerpt from my coming of age memoir, Resilient Ruin, captures part of one morning that was all too typical. What sort of mornings did you have on school days in your youth?
At times when the weather outside is forbidding, times when you have the sniffles or aches and pains, or times when you just want to forget about day-to-day responsibilities and be transported to another era for a while, nothing does the trick like a good book. The opening of my coming-of-age memoir, Resilient Ruin, spirits readers to my eighth grade graduation dance, a moment when my classmates and I were taking a leap out of childhood into an unknown future. All of us experience such moments on the road to adulthood—some happy, others not, and they have shaped who we've become today.
It was difficult to write Resilient Ruin, and it has been even more difficult to promote the book. It covers painful territory. I was confused, awkward, missing my deceased father, contending with an abusive stepmother who was unraveling emotionally and physically, not the least bit interested in schoolwork, and somehow under the impression that if I had the right boyfriend everything would be just fine. This quest for a boyfriend backfired hugely, and I slid downhill fast, blaming myself the whole time. The value is when others see pieces of themselves in the book and feel less alone and more able to love who they are.
Since I live in an area of California where PG&E has cut off power to millions of people, I've been thinking a lot about how easy it is to take things for granted. Electricity, for one. How easy it is to assume it'll always be there — until, one day, it isn't. This goes for people, too. My sisters and I lost both of our parents by the time I was eleven. As you can imagine, this created hardship. But we still had each other, something I appreciated during this excerpt included from Resilient Ruin. However, so much of the time, they were just there, you know? Just part of my everyday life, and I didn't give them much thought. Appreciation is a powerful thing. These days I make a point to appreciate the good people and things in my life every day -- even if the lights go out.
Sometimes a person's heart, mind, body and soul are completely out of sync. That was the case for me when I was in my teens and early twenties. It was like all the different parts of me were at war with one another, and the confusion roaring through me made it difficult to be present with people even during the simplest interactions. I was desperately unhappy in a relationship, but in so much inner turmoil, I couldn't act—until finally, a threat drove me to make a crucial phone call. Liberation was not easy, but it was about to begin. Have you ever known you should do something to change your situation but been unable to act?
Growing up in the Chicago area, where long winters could freeze you to the bone, and the school year seemed to drag on and on and on, I relished the summers. They meant freedom: bare feet, bathing suits, bike rides, hikes through the forest preserve, dancing and hanging out with friends hour after hour. Every year just before the Fourth of July, a carnival came to town. For children, the rides were the biggest draw; for teens, the beacon pulling them in was a big tent with local bands playing the Top 40 hits. And relationships were complicated.
I began writing poems and songs as a teenager in a Catholic girls' boarding school where, for the first time in many years, I felt safe. I didn't think at the time I could ever be a poet, songwriter or any kind of writer, but the spark was there, and I pursued writing in time. I am happy that youths today have more role models of people pursuing marvelously creative endeavors than when I was young. This excerpt is from when I arrived at the school and received an unexpectedly loving welcome, one that made a lasting impression.
Watching Christine Blasey Ford's testimony yesterday brought up painful experiences from my past, as it did for many other women. I was targeted in an extremely harmful way when I was in high school. I was already vulnerable because of an unstable home life, and I had no clue what was coming. After an incident, cruelly premeditated on the boys' part, that some would call date rape in these times, my life took a downward spiral. My grades fell, I gained weight, I acted out in myriad ways. At one point, I ran away from home. This excerpt from Resilient Ruin is from when I was on the road, certain only that I wanted to escape from my life as it was.
What do you do when you have power over someone? We've all made choices in countless small moments when nobody was watching except the person or people we were interacting with. If a mom is home alone with a child, no one knows, for example, whether she says something snide and punishes a child who trips and falls while carrying a stack of dishes, or whether she checks to see if the child is okay and helps pick up the mess. In those moments, when I was a child, my stepmother habitually chose cruelty. This came to mind recently when I heard reports of government employees whose job it was to separate families at the border telling parents and children they would not see each other again, that the children would be adopted by U.S. families and the parents deported. No matter what we believe about the merits or lack thereof of government policies, there is no cause to add cruelty to the mix. In those moments when we have power, I hope one day we will all choose kindess, especially when no one is watching.
I've been binge-watching "13 Reasons Why," and I'm struck by how brilliantly the Netflix series shows the impact bullying and sexual assault have not only on the immediate victims, but also on an entire community. Have you watched the series? Did it stir up old memories for you? My coming-of-age memoir, "Resilient Ruin" encompasses a time in my youth when I spiraled downward and then, finally, was able to begin climbing out of the dark pit that had enveloped me. I grappled with many of the same issues the youths in 13 Reasons Why do, but I was fortunate technology had not advanced to where children could blast hurtful images and words to hundreds of classmates in an instant. This excerpt is from just before my downward spiral began, when a friend who had dumped me for no reason wanted to reconcile. I had to decide whether to be her friend again. Have you ever been in a similar position?
Did you ever have a crush on someone you weren't allowed to date? What did you do? Did you see your sweetheart in secret or did you try to move on? Since my first crush, Pete, was two years ahead of me in high school, I wasn't allowed to date him. He and I were so smitten with each other, though, that we often met after school in a church bell tower, and since we were alone, flirting and making out were basically all we did. It would have been more fun and healthier if we could have gone to movies and dances with friends like other youths did, a number of whom were couples with two-year's difference in their ages. How long do you think Pete's and my relationship lasted?
What was your first kiss like? Were you tense, blissful, excited, apprehensive? Do you recall the taste of your flame's lips, the intoxicating smell of his or her skin? Were you in love? Were you a willing participant or were you pushed into it? Did you think it was wonderful—or weird? This excerpt from my coming-of-age memoir, Resilient Ruin, shows the afternoon when I met Pete, my first big crush. I thought Todd would be the first boy I'd kiss, but life is always surprising us, and like many teens, my feelings about someone could change in an instant. I remember goosebumps and giggles the afternoon Pete and I finally kissed. That moment, which I look back on fondly, comes shortly after this excerpt from the book.
When you're a teenager and your home life is chaotic, and your guardian is abusive, it's absolutely wonderful to have friends who welcome you to their homes, no questions asked. You can let go of your own troubles for a while, and even if your friend's family is flawed (and whose family isn't) being there is just the sweetest thing. This excerpt shares one of those friendships.
I felt off when I awoke this morning, but nowhere near as low as I used to go in my youth. Back then, despair was ever present. I did many impulsive things in an attempt to rid myself of anguish, including run away when I was sixteen. I soon found it's easy to leave, but difficult to figure out what to do next.
Children who are abused often grow accustomed to ill treatment and view it as normal because it is all they've known. They do their best to navigate around it while longing for love that isn't there. The abuse is so much a part of them, the scathing words they've heard and ongoing pain echo with every beat of their hearts. Occasionally, something snaps, and a young person rises up and says, "Enough!" This excerpt is from one of those moments in my life. It was before I left for school on a winter's morning when I was fourteen years old.
Resilient Ruin begins when I was with hundreds of classmates looking forward to letting loose at our eighth grade graduation dance. I had typical concerns about popularity and weight but had always been an excellent student. School was one place I could focus no matter what was going on at home. I couldn't have anticipated the heartbreak ahead.
I expect many of us felt awkward at our first dance. Did you? My first twirl on the dance floor was on eighth grade graduation day, a time when my friends and I were looking forward to a long summer break before the high school adventure began. This scene is written in first person, present tense. So is the rest of the book, which made it easier for me to revisit memories and make them come alive.
This excerpt makes me think of how mixed so many of our life experiences are. My father’s death was a loss of incalculable magnitude. I expect he thought returning to the church would help us carry on after he was gone. I doubt he envisioned we would join a Protestant congregation where he would likely have felt even more out of place than I did. But then, through this new church, I met a wonderful girl who helped me enjoy normal things my stepmother (whom I had to call Mommy at the time) had forbidden me from doing.
Click Follow to receive emails when this author adds content on Bublish