Authorpreneur Dashboard – Mary Berelson
Bicentennial Summer
Literature & Fiction
“An engaging coming-of-age novel that tackles all the messy and beautiful parts of being a family.” Kirkus Reviews
“Highly recommended reading, regardless of your favorite genre; it will stay with you for a long time.” Readers’ Favorite
“Coming-of-age road trip novel alive with incident and a fraught father/daughter relationship.” BookLife by Publishers Weekly
“…engaging, accessible, and filled with period detail that will transport readers back to 1976. Berelson has a gift for dialogue that rings true to a child’s perspective…” Seattle Book Review
Bicentennial Summer is a coming-of-age novel set in 1976, following 13-year-old Mary as she embarks on a cross-country road trip with her father and younger twin sisters. Struggling with the fallout from her parents’ conflict over her father's shady business practices, Mary learns to navigate family dynamics, her father's reckless behavior, and her own journey of self-discovery. As the family faces unexpected challenges, including a breakdown in Texas, Mary grapples with the complexities of growing up and coming to terms with the flaws of those she loves most.
Book Bubbles from Bicentennial Summer
The Journal I Never Meant to Keep
As a kid, I was forever trying to “capture” life—scribbling in diaries, starting journals I never quite finished, storing memories in half-used notebooks. I think many of us do this: we want to hold onto the moments that shape us, but life moves faster than our pens. Mary’s idea of a Journal of Life grew out of that impulse. It’s not something she writes—it’s something that writes itself. She doesn’t get to curate only the shiny parts; the complicated, uncomfortable truths get logged right alongside the triumphs and adventures. That’s the paradox of memory: it’s both a gift and a record we didn’t necessarily ask to keep. In this excerpt, Mary realizes she’s making a new entry without even trying. A dusty highway, her dad humming beside her, the sun setting in gold—it’s an ordinary moment that becomes extraordinary simply because she’s paying attention. That’s what this story is about at its heart: noticing. Growing up. Realizing that the beautiful and the painful together make us who we are. And understanding that even the bumps in the road—literal and emotional—become part of the journal we carry forward.
Lord Have Mercy - You’ve Won Me Over
In this scene, compassion wins out over pride and practicality. What I love most is that it’s the children’s sincerity—and the offering of simple flowers—that changes Sandra’s heart. Their father’s flawed optimism and their shared vulnerability create a small miracle of kindness in an otherwise harsh moment. Writing this, I was struck by how goodness often appears in unlikely places: a weary motel clerk, a broken-down family, and the courage to ask for help when there’s nothing left to trade but trust.
A Rare Glimpse of Dad’s Care
In this scene, Mary experiences a fleeting moment of her father’s empathy—a rare, almost shocking act of care. He helps her wash up, gives her medicine, and even handles the map with calm authority. For Mary, it’s bittersweet: relief mixed with the question of why such kindness is so hard for him. Writing this reminded me how even small gestures of care can leave a lasting emotional impact.
A Stern Kindness
Mercy doesn’t always come wrapped in softness. That night, a weary motel clerk saw through my father’s charm, our tired faces, and our mismatched luggage, and offered us a room—not for him, but for us children. She didn’t swoon or make excuses. She acted with a firm, practical kindness, one that came with expectations and a quiet reminder that life doesn’t excuse carelessness. I remember the way she arranged the flowers, handed us the key, and even winked at me. That small act of stern grace stayed with me long after we left the motel, teaching me that compassion can be both unwavering and life-changing—and that sometimes the most unexpected people can leave the deepest mark.
Scraps of Trust
Sometimes the smallest moments carry the heaviest weight. Feeding a squirrel seems so simple—crumbs, patience, and a steady hand—but it becomes a mirror for Mary’s relationship with her father. She wants to trust him, to believe the best, but she also knows how fragile that trust can be. In this scene, the act of holding still, offering something small, and waiting to see what happens becomes a quiet metaphor for love, hope, and disappointment. Writing it reminded me how often trust grows—or unravels—through little gestures, not grand declarations. ???? Reader Takeaway: When have you found yourself offering crumbs of trust to someone you love?
Breaker One-Nine: Should We Stop @ Wall Drug?
When I was drafting this scene, I wanted to capture the spontaneity and quirky magic of family road trips in the 1970s — especially when CB radios were the original social media. As a kid, I remember the excitement of hearing strangers’ voices crackle over the airwaves and trying to decode their slang. Places like Wall Drug seemed almost mythical because of all the billboards. The fact that people really did stop there for the cold water and five-cent coffee — and that it became a place for unexpected reunions — made it feel like a roadside wonderland. Writing this brought back that sense of discovery, and I loved imagining how these CB conversations shaped Mary’s understanding of the world and how grown-ups communicate (awkwardly!). This scene is about more than just a pit stop — it’s about connection, curiosity, and how road trips bring people together in ways you can’t predict.
What I Wanted Him to Say
On a long road trip in the summer of 1976, Mary is starting to see her dad more clearly. Like many girls coming of age in that era, she finds herself torn between admiration and discomfort—caught in the confusing space between wanting a father's love and knowing something isn’t quite right. Writing this scene, I wanted to capture that moment when a child begins to understand the complexities of adult behavior, especially when it crosses invisible but deeply felt boundaries. For Mary, the lake was beautiful. The moment was not. But she tries—like many of us do—to rewrite it in her mind, to make it feel safer.
Three Feet Deep and Still in Over My Head
This scene captures a moment when Mary, still smarting from her father's reckless choices, finds herself thrust into a position of responsibility—literally diving in to save the day. It’s one of those small but symbolic turning points: she chooses kindness over resentment, even though forgiveness won’t come easily. The setting—Donner Lake, with its cold clarity and glittering flecks of fool’s gold—mirrors the emotional complexity of the moment. There’s beauty and humor here, but also the weight of growing up and learning to carry both love and disappointment at once.
Was It Real or Just for Show?
This scene pulls from a blend of real family memories and fictionalized embellishments to highlight the complicated dynamic between Mary’s parents. I wanted to show the humor and chaos of their relationship, but also plant a subtle seed of doubt in the reader’s mind—Mary’s growing awareness that what looks like affection might sometimes be performance. Moments like this shaped her understanding of her father, making her both protective and wary. The motorcycle story may seem lighthearted at first, but it foreshadows deeper questions Mary grapples with throughout the novel: What’s real, and what’s just for show?
The Snore and the Kick
This scene is one of my favorites—it captures a quiet moment of tenderness and humor between Mary and her Grandma TeenTeen. TeenTeen’s nightly routine of removing her “parts” (wig, glasses, teeth) would reduce her to a more vulnerable version of herself, but that never changed her fierce love or their mutual affection. Their silly, well-worn bedtime script is something many readers may recognize—those cherished rituals that become the emotional glue between generations. I wanted this to show how even the quirkiest family interactions can hold deep meaning. These are the small, seemingly inconsequential moments that often stay with us the longest.
Breakfast with a Side of Discomfort
This scene captures the bittersweet complexity of Mary’s journey—moments of freedom and joy, like pancakes and Wham-O Frisbees, are undercut by the reality of traveling with a complicated parent. I wanted the reader to feel that moment of rising hope—a warm meal, a new toy, clean faces—and then the cold reminder of why this trip isn’t all postcards and adventure. Mary's dad can be magnetic, even fun, but he doesn’t always know how to be appropriate, especially around women. That tension—between admiration and embarrassment, connection and distance—is what makes Mary’s voice so real to me. This breakfast is more than a meal. It’s another turning point in how Mary sees her father.
A Toilet Float, a Trumpet, & a Father’s Love
This scene says so much about my dad—and why I adored him. He was deeply patriotic, yes, but also quirky, creative, and not above using a toilet part to finish a project. That early morning flag-raising ritual was our sacred time, and even a painted ballcock on top of a 25-foot pole felt noble when I was playing “Reveille” at dawn. Writing this chapter helped me remember not just what we did, but how much I loved doing it—with him.
