Ruby Slippers Don’t Help In Tornado Alley

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It’s that time of year again. Tornado season. Monday was the first day of 2008 that eastern Oklahoma was under a tornado watch.

Of course I’m used to Oklahoma’s wild spring weather. I grew up here. Some of my earliest memories are of being bundled up in the middle of the night and taken to my grandparents’ cellar. We’d spend an hour or two in that small, humid, underground room with its metal door, then go home. My grandmother stored canned vegetables from her garden down there on metal shelves that lined the concrete walls. There were also chairs and a metal cot with an old mattress and heavy handmade quilts. I don’t ever remember being scared down there – it was more an anticipation of something that might happen but never really did. I’m sure my grandparents felt something entirely different during those times we were huddled in that cellar. They were remembering an evening in 1950, before the National Weather Service broadcast weather warnings; before towns had tornado sirens.

On April 28, 1950, at 7:05 pm, an F-4 tornado ripped through Holdenville, Oklahoma with no warning. My Dad was 13 years old that year. As he tells the story, he and his parents had been planting corn all day in the adjacent field. There had been a light rain and they had returned to the house to get cleaned up – they were planning to go downtown to eat dinner. By 7:00 pm everyone except my grandfather was ready to go. With only one bathroom, he was the last in line to take a bath. My grandmother and my Dad were in the kitchen, waiting for him, when they heard the sounds of a train. That wasn’t an unusual sound for their area, but it was coming from the south. There were no train tracks in that direction. My grandmother and Dad went to the window. First they saw 50 gallon oil drums spinning in the air, then noticed the dark funnel cloud approaching.

Things happened very fast after that. My grandmother screamed for my grandfather, “There’s a tornado coming right at us!”

My grandmother and my dad then tried in vain to open the cellar door. It was a trapdoor in the back porch and the metal file that they used to pry up the door was missing.

The sound of wind attacking the house was incredible. My grandmother sent my dad to lock the front door, but he found the living room and the front door gone. By that time my grandfather was dressed – his shoes on the wrong feet. He tried to get everyone into the cellar, but before that could happen, the kitchen roof fell in on top of them.

As suddenly as it came, it was over. My grandmother ended up in the bathtub – no one was ever quite sure why or how. They teased her for years about taking a bath during the tornado.

They stood on the back porch and watched the tornado destroy a pond dam and two more houses before disappearing. Horses from a nearby stockyard were scattered in their pasture – two by fours piercing their bodies, nailing them to the ground.

My grandparents were lucky. They survived the tornado without any injuries. They lost livestock, outbuildings, their barn, and their house. At least five people in Holdenville died that day. Thirty-two were reported injured. I asked my Dad what they did that night after the tornado struck; where did they go? He said they stayed right there. It was their home and they had to keep looters out. The next day they searched for items that had been blown away. He remembers finding his saddle about a half-mile from where the barn used to stand. Their two-car garage was gone, a car and truck that had been parked inside were still there, although slightly smashed together. The four dogs eventually all made it home; one remaining glued to their ankles for the rest of the summer.

My dad’s older brother was in the Air Force, stationed in Illinois when the tornado struck. He was allowed to come home to help during those first two weeks; a short time after that he was given a hardship discharge and returned home for good. The National Guard was called in to protect the town.

That summer my grandparents rebuilt their home. First a garage and then an apartment located over it; someplace with a roof to live in while they constructed the new house, barn, and cellar- the cellar I spent so much time in fourteen years later.

I think about that day in 1950 when I hear the weather alerts on the television and the radio. I marvel at how far we’ve come in predicting when and where tornados will strike.

Like I said, I’m used to Oklahoma’s spring weather. I don’t get upset. But I do watch the skies.

Evelyn

Tastes Like Chicken

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I make every attempt to get my family to eat healthy. This is not an easy task because I have a son who likes virtually nothing, except for (inexplicably) pepperoni. He claims not to eat meat, but will partake of a steak dinner if it is offered (and/or if I threaten him with a six-thirty p.m. bedtime). My daughter is a bit better because she significantly older than he is, but vegetables and fruits are not high on her list. One night, in a fit of pique, I told the two of them that they were going to get scurvy, just like the pirates of the seventeenth (?) century, because they don’t eat any citrus products. They just looked at me, bored, and returned to finishing off a bag of pretzel rods and a box of Teddy Grahams.

I’ve bought organic and local; shopped the farmers’ market when it is in season; picked my own eggplant from an orchard in the vicinity; and tried to bring more wheats, grains, and fiber into the nightly dinner offerings. But I’m exhausted, because every night is a whine-fest, a litany of each child’s likes and dislikes, how I’m failing them in the culinary sense. I know I can’t be the only one out there who has this problem, and while my children are delightful in every other sense, when it comes to food, they’re difficult.

I give up. Even though I make one meal, and one meal only every night, the disappointment and despair written on their faces is enough to make me commit hara-kiri with my not-so-sharp kitchen knives.

I ate everything as a child. I remember my Irish grandmother—the one with a taste for ethnic Jewish food, easily purchased because we lived so close to Flatbush Avenue—bringing home an entire smoked whitefish for us to pick on as I did my homework. And there were garlic pickles, corned beef, rye bread, kosher hot dogs and a host of other culinary wonders that my children would most definitely turn their noses up at. So I don’t understand how a basic dish of rice pilaf, roasted chicken, and glazed carrots could make them run for the hills. When you’ve attempted to do your times tables with a dead whitefish staring up at you, a roasted chicken would be a welcome distraction, no?

So, I’ve started to lie. As a friend of mine would say, “Is that bad?” I have discovered that they like fried chicken cutlets and would eat them every night if I let them. So, I went to the local gourmet store, where tilapia was on sale, and bought several filets. Before the kids entered the kitchen to do their nightly reconnaissance, I floured, egged, and breaded them (the filets, not the kids), throwing them into an oil-coated frying pan as I heard their footsteps approaching. “What are we having for dinner?” they asked, warily eyeing the oil popping in the frying pan. “Chicken cutlets,” I said, not turning around. (I am a terrible liar.)

There was much rejoicing. We sat down at the table, and with “chicken cutlets” piled high on everyone’s plates, we set about to eating. Conversation was lively, fun, and not fraught with complaints about who didn’t like what or questions about why something was prepared a certain way. My eight-year-old was close to clearing his plate—a rare occurrence—when he looked over at me and said, “Are these different from the cutlets you usually make?”

I looked down. “No. I tried a new recipe.” (Did I mention that I’m a terrible liar?)

My daughter, who was in the kitchen refilling her water glass, shrieked, slumping against the counter in a swoon, almost brought to her knees by what she had just discovered. “That’s because it isn’t chicken cutlet!” she said, waving the empty tilapia package above her head. “It’s something else…it’s…” she said, holding the package close to her nose. “It’s fish,” she said, almost in a whisper.

My son turned to me, wide-eyed. “You made us fish?” he asked incredulously. I waited for the accusations and recriminations. I waited for the proclamation that I was the worst mother in the world and clearly, the worst cook. I waited for the tears when the realization that he had just ingested fish—FISH!—set in. But he stared at me a few more minutes, wide blue saucer eyes framed by inky black eyelashes. I held his gaze. Finally, he smiled, and offered a little shrug. “Tastes just like chicken.”

Maggie Barbieri

Fresno Dreams

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Spring is definitely on its way in Central California.

Driving through the foothills is a treat. The hills are covered with wild flowers, whole fields of gold and orange with patches of white and purple. Above the hills you catch glimpses of the snow covered mountains. It’s gorgeous!

Hubby and I took in the beauty on our way to Fresno yesterday. I’d been invited to a Newcomers Book Club to speak. A couple of months ago I was contacted by the leader of the book club, and she asked if I’d send 12 copies of Judgment Fire. She sent the money and I sent the books.

What great fun it was to be the center of attraction among a wonderful group of booklovers. They asked terrific questions and told me what they’d liked best about the book-and were kind enough not to mention anything they didn’t like. I enjoyed myself and I hope they did too.

Afterwards, hubby and I checked into a hotel because I had to teach a class in Fresno in the morning and it didn’t make sense to drive home and back again. Because we live in a small town, we don’t have a lot of restaurants to choose from so it’s always a delight to go where there are lots of choices.

Because they’d over booked the hotel, we were given a suite with not only a regular bathroom with shower but also a Jacuzzi in a separate room. The most exciting thing we did was watch Dancing with the Stars.

However, I had the craziest dream just before I woke. We were trying to get dressed for my morning class and the housekeeping staff kept coming into the room while we were in various stages of undress. I’d yell at them and chase them out and then they’d be right back in again. Right before I woke, I was yelling at them to get out and stay out or I’d have them fired.

Anyone who can interpret dreams want to have a shot at that one?

Now what that has to do with wild flowers and book clubs I have no idea, but that’s what’s been going on in my life lately.

Marilyn
http://fictionforyou.com

Tempus Fugit

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I had coffee last week with Todd Strasser, a prolific author of a gazillion wonderful books that kids of all ages adore. Like any two authors who meet, we swapped war stories (writers block survival tips, reviews that pierce the soul, clever ideas for how to commit [fictional] murder without being caught — frogs are involved). We then talked a little about how hard it is to remain focused and how to fight those distractions that take us out of the stories we’re writing.

Knowing that admitting a problem is the first step to dealing with it, I then made a confession. Checking to be sure that I wasn’t overheard, I mumbled my dirty little secret. “I’m a free cell addict.”

For those unfamiliar with the games feature on their computers, it’s an ostensibly straightforward solitaire game that sucks you in with its simplicity until you realize you’ve just played 12 games in a row and nobody has been fictionally killed in at least an hour.

His face lit up in recognition of a fellow traveler. He checked my credentials. Did I let the computer randomly pick the games or did I hand select which ones I took on?

Here was a real pro. He promised to send me a list of the 100 toughest games; he’d found a web site that ranked them. I was set for life – or at least three books!

The seventeenth century English poet Edward Young warned “Procrastination is the thief of time.” On the other hand, Young was just penning rhymes about the execution of Lady Jane Grey. He wasn’t trying to figure out a method for Queen Mary to murder Ms. Jane without detection – or how Mac Sullivan and Rachel Brenner could trip up Mary before she killed again. Of course, another fabulous procrastination technique is Wikipedia where you learn incredibly useful information that you never previously knew – like who the heck is Edward Young and what did he have against an innocent game of free cell.

Frankly, I suspect that if Ed Young felt the need to make grand pronouncements about the folly of procrastination, then he probably had quite a few secret vices of his own to kill time when the iambic pentameter wasn’t flowing like water.

I always marvel at the author who explains, in her New York Times bestseller interview, that she got this inspiration for a book and the words just seemed to appear in full paragraphs on her computer screen. She wrote the entire draft in a single sitting of 67 days and never even checked a thesaurus because each word was perfect the first time around.

But I always identify with the writer who confesses that it took her three years and seven drafts to finish the stupid book and every word was like pulling teeth without Novocain.

Which is why I play Free Cell. I make little deals with myself when I’m working on a book: If I write two paragraphs, then I can take a break and play a quick game. Ask me how many games I’ve played since starting this blog.

I know there are other fine ways to procrastinate. Believe me, when I’m really looking to kill time instead of victims, I’ve been known to take down all the curtains in the house and wash them. My husband can tell from the bare windows as he pulls into the driveway that I’ve hit a brick wall in the plot. But it could have been worse. I know one author who surfs E-bay to avoid writing. He recently bought himself a bison head instead of finishing chapter three.

Tempus fugit indeed.

Evelyn David

The Book Matchmaker

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Sally MacPherson, an independent bookstore owner from Portland, Oregon guest blogs today.

Hi, I’m Sally the book matchmaker. Thanks, Stiletto Gang, for asking me to guest blog! Hmmm. What to say….

Hey, I’m a bookseller. Maybe I should talk about selling books. Better yet, I think I’ll talk about buying books. Recently I came across a survey of where people buy books. The percentage of books purchased in grocery stores was 3%. That’s not too surprising; lots of grocery chains now stock books.

But then I saw this: The percentage of books purchased from independent bookstores was…wait for it now…also 3%. Wow. That number floored me. Chain bookstores accounted for more than 30% of sales, and the Internet rang up another 20%.

So, who cares? Well, the most immediate benefit to shopping at a local independent store is that the money stays local, as opposed to being sent to corporate headquarters. More important to me as a reader is that I don’t want to see my reading choices shrink as books get squeezed through an increasingly narrow consumer channel. If the majority of books are sold through chains such as Barnes & Noble and Costco, those vendors will have a whopping huge say in what is published. And that scares the pants off me – as a bookseller AND as a reader – and it should give pause to anyone who is or wants to be a writer.

Why? Isn’t it better for writers to have lots of places their books can be sold, including drug stores and grocery stores? Certainly, there are some positives to that distribution model. But in most cases the people making those book-buying decisions are not booksellers and aren’t likely to buy with an eye to nurturing new talent or even to satisfying specific local tastes. They will be attracted to the sure bets – the John Grishams and Stephen Kings of the world. And they aren’t likely to sit on books that don’t sell quickly.

At our store we labor over publishers’ catalogs, thinking of individual customers and our neighborhood as a whole, and selecting books that we think will strike a chord with our customers—even if it’s a chord of disagreement. And when customers come into the store looking for something to read, we can tell them about specific books—why we bought them and why they resonate with us. New authors have a better chance of building an audience when their books are sold with the zeal of a passionate bookseller than they do with a stack of books at Costco, a grocery store, or a large bookstore chain

When a customer comes into our store, my goal isn’t to pitch the latest bestseller from a rainmaker author, or to sell a book that the publisher has frontloaded with incentive discounts. It’s to find out what makes those customers tick, and then find the books that will resonate with them. And then to do it again and again as they come back. I love introducing new authors to receptive readers and watching those authors build a following.

After pondering this, I decided to revisit my own buying habits. For instance, lately I’ve gotten in the habit of buying music on-line through iTunes. But I’ve come to understand that, just like I don’t want to see independent bookstores disappear, I also want independent music stores to stick around. So, last weekend I treated myself to a mini spree at a local independent music store.

And then I needed some parts to fix my toilet. Typically I would head to the large chain store selling hardware / automotive / plumbing / groceries / furniture / clothing / music / whatever. This time I found a local independent hardware store and got what I needed there. And I had a great shopping experience.

So now I’m rethinking everything I buy—not just books and music and “parts,” but also food and clothes and coffee and pet supplies and everything else. Because I’ve realized that where you buy something makes as much of a statement about what you believe and support as what you buy.

Sally MacPherson

My Jonquils Are Blooming!

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My jonquils are blooming and I’m thinking spring! In Oklahoma it’s generally accepted that after Easter you can start your spring planting without too much worry of another hard freeze damaging young plants.

I don’t plant vegetables although each year I consider planting some tomatoes. There is nothing better in this world than a home grown tomato. But I never get past the thinking stage, mostly because my parents plant a garden and usually supply me with all the tomatoes I can use.

What I like to plant are flowers—flowers that don’t require lots of attention. My backyard has perennials: purple wisteria, blue hydrangeas, shrub roses, climbing roses, peonies, Rose of Sharons, and other varieties of hibiscus. I love lilies—all kinds. I like tulips and irises too, but if I plant them the moles and gophers act like I’ve invited them to an all-you-can-eat underground buffet.

Although the area where I live is known for beautiful azaleas—the town has an azalea festival in the spring—the soil in my yard is not acidic enough to sustain them. I’ve tried and failed at least a half dozen times to get some established, but eventually they’ve all turned brown and made me feel guilty for their untimely demise. I should never have brought them home with me—they might have had a full life somewhere else. But I look across the road and see the azaleas in full bloom, and once more consider buying a plant or two.

I’m partial to pansies and petunias and other colorful annuals. They are fun and instantly brighten up my yard. Last weekend I visited a local nursery and forced myself not to buy anything yet. I need to get the flowerbeds ready first.

Yesterday, I mowed my yard for the first time this year. I had a nice crop of henbit to mow, not much bermuda grass. My lawn mower started without much trouble—a miracle in itself after its long winter hiatus. The ground was wet—too wet to do much more than mow and then maybe some raking.

Maybe next Saturday, I’ll get to dig up the beds and buy some plants. I’ll have to be smart about it, not just buy everything that looks pretty. Believe me, I’ve done that before and regretted it. Nothing worse than lugging home twenty odd potted plants that you need to get into the ground right away, then running out of daylight or good weather or energy…or inspiration to get them planted.

Spring is the time for new beginnings, both for gardeners and writers. Besides my gardening ambitions, my co-author and I are starting a new short story and plotting a new mystery.

I need new gardening gloves—and maybe a new keyboard for my computer.

Here’s to Spring!

Evelyn

Eco-Wars

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I live in a village that many consider to be “crunchy”—a term that encompasses our liberal leanings, our “green” ways, the number of writers and artists who dwell here. We got this way after being the settling place for many a communist in the 1920s, and a summer vacation spot for actors and actresses over the years, including—according to local legend—Jackie Gleason. These days, we’re a mix of the old and the new, but the leftover hippy vibe that permeated the village for so many years still resonates with many of us.

To wit: my friend, Eileen, who I met as a gawky nine-year-old in Mrs. Darken’s Fourth Grade class, visited one Fall Saturday to see her son’s high school football team taken on our team. As we sat in the sun-drenched stands, she looked around, surveyed the crowd, and asked, “Does anybody dye their hair in this town?” I reached up self-consciously to my own grey-streaked mop and stammered, “well…yes…no…some do…” She looked down at my feet, shod in Dansko clogs. “And what’s with the clogs? Do you have to wear them in order to buy a house in this town?” Again, I was dumbfounded. “Uh, no,” I said, this time a little more defiantly. But looking around, I couldn’t dispute that we Village denizens embrace a vibe not found in the neighboring towns of Westchester County.

Which leads me to my new car. I had been driving a station wagon for the last several years and got nauseous every time I went to fill it up with gas. Because, as time went on, I realized I was getting a mere seventeen miles to the gallon. It wasn’t the amount of money I was spending that bothered me, it was the amount of environment I was abusing that was the crux of the problem. And I knew it was just a matter of time before the thousands of Prius-driving Villagers began pelting me with stones. Because they take their grey hair, their clogs, and their green-ness very seriously. So I started thinking about buying a new car. Five years or so ago, I noticed a man in town driving an adorable little car; he had whizzed by me in what I later found out was a Mini Cooper. I did a little research and found out that yes, four people could fit comfortably in one of these; they got more than thirty miles to the gallon; they had a good safety record; and I could fit several bags of groceries in the almost non-existent trunk. I thought about this car as my station wagon up and died a few months ago, leaving a plume of white smoke in its wake.

Let me, at this juncture, tell you how flexible and reasonable I am. My conversation with my husband went as follows:

Me: “We need to buy a new car. I want something smaller that gets better gas mileage.”Him: “Let’s get something practical. How about a Honda Civic?”

Me: “Absolutely not.”Him: “How about a Toyota Camry.”Me: “What? Are you kidding?”

Him: (getting exasperated) “How about a Prius?”

Me: “We’re getting a Mini Cooper.”

He was slightly flabbergasted, a tad reluctant. But I won him over with my impassioned arguments about the environment, our carbon footprint, our commitment to the earth. (And the fact that I told him that at my age, there was no way I was putting my flabby middle-aged behind in anything but a fun, little sports car. Grey hair? Yes. Practicality? No way.)

Suffice it to say that we have a brand-new, Mini Cooper Clubman (a new, slightly larger model than the traditional Mini) in our driveway. I can’t get the keys out of my husband’s hot little hands.

Now I’m feeling great about myself. If I drive correctly, I can get up to forty miles a gallon on the highway. The car is compact and easy to park—not to mention the most adorable car I’ve ever driven. I fill up at the gas station with far less regularity than before. I’m delighted with myself and honestly, feeling a bit smug when I pile my two kids, my dog, my daughter’s violin, my son’s lacrosse stick, and four bags of grocery into the car. Who needs a minivan or an SUV? Not me. I’m RESPONSIBLE. I CARE ABOUT THE ENVIRONMENT. I don’t have to tell anyone. They can just tell. It’s the classic case of “show, don’t tell,” right?

I went to a small, local grocery store the other day, proud of myself and my commitment to the environment. I got out, took out my reusable grocery bags and looked around, wondering why nobody in the parking lot was giving me kudos for being so responsible. How about some props, people? As I slammed the trunk shut, a little, teenie-weenie car came motoring toward me, driven by the man who I had seen driving the original Mini Cooper lo those many years ago. But now?He was driving a SmartCar.

I slumped a bit against the Mini Cooper. “Foiled again,” I thought. What’s next? A bicycle built for two? There was no way I could keep up.

Nothing like a six-foot three man in a car with no back seat to ruin your feeling of bonhomie over your wonderfully green ways. I guess you could say that I had gotten my eco-comeuppance.

What’s a Succesful Writer?

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This is what I wrote for last week, and just didn’t get it posted.

Wow, what a busy week–as usual. I’m working on a ghost writing project which is taking a lot of my time. I’m also judging the fiction part of a writing contest–something I really like to do.

In between I’ve given two classes on Planning for Emergencies for people who are administrators of licensed care facilities in California. I’ve been teaching and organizing continuing education for this industry for over fourteen years. Many of you may not know that for over twenty years my husband and I had a licensed care facility in our home and cared for six women with developmental disabilities. We both loved doing this. Our women were like family. Then our own family life became so complicated, we knew it was time to retire.

I’ve continued with the education part of the business because I truly care for the people who are doing this important job. (Also it brings in a little cash which helps pay for all the trips I go on.)

Of course my writing is of utmost importance to me–and of course, promoting what I’ve already written. Saturday I was fortunate to have been asked by the Writers of Kern (Bakersfield chapter of California Writers Club) to come and talk to them about What is Most Important in a Mystery, Plot or Character? Of course the answer is both are important. I love talking about mystery writing and this was a great group.

Also speaking was Mike Russo of Russo’s Books. He talked about the state of the book business–which isn’t so hot right now. He encouraged everyone to support their independent bookstores. Steve Mettee, publisher of Quill Driver Books, told everyone what it took to be a successful writer.

I’m not sure what being a succesful writer means. If it means making lots of money, than I’m not one. However, if being a successful writer means enjoying what I do, getting to meet lots of wonderful people and doing fun things and going to new places, then I am most certainly successful.

Marilyn
http://fictionforyou.com

Down Memory Lane

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I’ve been thinking about my sixth grade graduation. Yes, I know it’s been a couple of years, but it’s been on my mind recently. I can clearly picture that sunny June day. At our all-girls parochial school, the graduation attire was a white dress. It was the first time I wore heels, which were essentially my Mary Janes without the straps. It was long before pantyhose were invented, and even longer before I needed control-top pantyhose. So my solution that day was to keep up my first nylons with garters.

Unfortunately that decision didn’t take into account that 11-year old girls still like to run around, so I spent an inordinate amount of time that day chasing my friends – and stopping frequently to haul my hose back up my skinny legs. It was also the first time I’d had my hair “done,” but it would be three more years before I would be allowed to wear lipstick.

In that same memory photo are two other girls in white dresses: my best friends in grade school. There was Rhonalee, who always had a perfect ponytail of long straight hair, which was the diametric opposite of my curly mop, and Sarah, who was as petite as I was not.

Graduation day ended and we drifted apart as we entered a larger, less insulated world of different public schools. Decades passed and sixth grade graduation was all just a sweet memory until I found a surprise in my e-mailbox last week. The subject line: “Are you the same…” was intriguing. And there, thanks to the power of Google, was Sarah, asking if I were the same person who went to parochial school with her. She had found my nonfiction web site and looking at my photo she thought she caught a glimpse of her former classmate.

The prompt for her search? It was February 22, my birthday. She remembered that we used to get the day off from school, back when George Washington’s birthday was a Federal holiday. Something that sadly changed in 1971 when the powers that be decided we would celebrate President’s Day on the third Monday in February (needless to say I was annoyed at that decision).

Anyway, Sarah and I have been trading e-mails, catching up on the intervening decades. We’ve lived very different – and yet very similar – lives. We both have been married forever and we each have four kids. We both have struggled with career goals, aging parents, and the grief of losing a sibling. She’s planning for the holidays with her family – me too. But she lives in Northern Israel and that fact alone changes some of her daily life. I’ve known war from a distance; her children have all served in the army. We both want peace, here, there, everywhere.

On that sunny morning in June, those many years ago, we couldn’t have known the paths we each would take. We also never envisioned that we could meet again in cyberspace. Back then, lost friendships were mourned and then forgotten. But through the remarkable power of the Internet, an idea as foreign as the concept of adulthood to those young girls in white dresses, we are able to revisit our pasts and talk about our futures.

To that I can only add — l’chaim!

Evelyn David

I Love Books!!

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Our guest blogger today is Tina Jordan, senior editor/book reviewer for Entertainment Weekly.

I love books. As a senior editor at Entertainment Weekly—one who writes book reviews and edits book features—I’m immersed in the publishing world, and my office is inundated with galleys and books. My house, too is full of books—great teetering piles in places, in fact, since we ran out of bookshelf space long ago. Books are often found crammed between couch cushions, beneath the ottomans, under the desk in the study. I’m no highbrow snob, either. Heck, on the right day, I like Emily Griffin as much as John Updike. And yet, the older I get (let’s just say an important birthday is looming) the harder it seems to be to find books to swoon over. The ones that keep me up late turning the pages. The ones that lkeep me glued to the couch, ignoring my family for hours on end (if one of my teenagers gallops into the room, I look up a trifle resentfully and say, “Yes?”).

So why is that? Why is it that I don’t find as much that utterly, completely thrills me, that sends me over the edge? I don’t think I’m jaded or cynical. I don’t deplore the state of publishing or wring my hands over the quality of what’s written today. Sure, I like a lot of what I read. Sometimes I like it a lot. And I know exactly which book last made me weak in the knees: the new Elizabeth George novel, Careless in Red, coming out in May. For those of you who haven’t read her mysteries, well, I could write an entire column about her. Suffice it to say her books are intelligent, complex, and deeply, hugely satisfying. Reading one is like realizing that I’m ravenous, I haven’t eaten in days, and I can’t gulp down the pages fast enough.

So when the galley for Careless in Red arrived at my office, I felt a frisson of excitement. Like all Elizabeth Georges, it is enormous, an absolute doorstopper; I started reading that night when I got on my train in Grand Central, nearly missed my stop 40 minutes later, and, once home headed straight up to the bedroom, followed by a gaggle of dachshunds and kids. When I finally had some peace, I dove back in. I put it down, reluctantly, a little after midnight (can’t stay up as late as I used to!), and picked it up the next morning around six when I made some coffee. It was a Saturday, and I put all the usual weekend fun—laundry, housecleaning, grocery shopping—on hold, raptly turning the pages, occasionally sipping some cooling coffee. By the time the girls were up I’d finished, closing the galley with a happy sigh. That was two weeks ago, and Careless in Red is still vivid, some of its passages imprinted in my mind. George’s Scotland Yard characters, so familiar to me after many books, are old friends by now, so I ache for Thomas Lynley, whose wife was murdered, and Barbara Havers, as scraggly and socially inept as ever.

Who knows why I find fewer Careless in Reds than I used to? If this were a proper essay, I’d have mulled this over and come up with all kinds of smart reasons. But I do a lot less smart reasoning than I used to. No, I’ve decided there’s nothing to do but savor those special books when I DO find them. Right now, the new Benjamin Black is at the top of my nightstand stack, beckoning me. Right underneath is the new Jesse Kellerman. Then there’s a novel that looked good, The Girl Who Stopped Swimming. All of them look terrific. (But no dutiful plowing-through for me—if I detest a book, I just toss it aside.) It’s likely I’ll enjoy all three of those novels. And maybe—if I’m really, really lucky—one of them will tickle that elusive place in my brain, and, addict that I am, I’ll be consumed by a book once again.

Tina Jordan