Isabel Allende was in her 20s, working at a women’s magazine in Chile, when the second wave of feminism hit. Betty Friedan’s “The Feminine Mystique” and Simone de Beauvoir’s “The Second Sex” were among the most significant books in that era (roughly from the 1960s to the 1980s) that galvanized women to redefine their role in society and the struggle against gender inequities.
San Francisco is primed for idyllic love stories, with Technicolor visuals (sparkling bay, impossible hills), heady aromas (fresh-ground coffee wafting out of North Beach cafes, cracked crab at the wharf) and iconic sounds of foghorns and cable car bells. ¶ But we all know the city has a darker side, and all the natural beauty and sensation is no guarantee of living happily ever after.
“What’s it about?” ¶ That’s the question I’m most often asked after recommending a book. There seems to be a widespread feeling that an intriguing topic will undoubtedly make a great read. ¶ So often, however, a tantalizing subject gets submerged in a swamp of bad writing. Conversely, a book about something in which I profess myself profoundly disinterested becomes a favorite when the writing elevates it.
I made a decision in January to read more writers of color this year. It was motivated by the big dustup over Jeanine Cummins’ novel American Dirt, a controversy centered on whether a white writer had the right to write a story of Mexican refugees fleeing a violent drug cartel. While I came down on the side of an author to write outside the realm of her own experience—I just appreciate good writing—I also recognized that the publishing industry has a pathetic record when it comes to giving voice to non-white writers.
Here’s what I love about my dog, Bodie. He doesn’t worry about the Supreme Court, climate change or the point of life. He’s all about eating, sleeping and running (off-leash whenever possible). ¶ I realize I lost a number of you with my first sentence. And pre-COVID-19, I would have been among those who tuned out.
I’ve always been a sucker for oddballs. Especially when it comes to literature. Misfits, outcasts, characters who operate outside of societal norms — they make the most interesting protagonists. ¶ Unconventional characters often act as a mirror to the world around them, reflecting all the human aspirations and foibles therein.
Indulge me for a moment. I know our natural world is going to hell in a handbasket. But reading dire prognoses and apocalyptic scenarios doesn’t rally me to action. Rather, it makes me want to hide my head under the blankets. ¶ What really works is remembering why I love nature, the strong, sensory emotions brought on by a fiery red maple tree or rushing mountain stream. Watching my local woodpecker drill a telephone pole.
Remember letters? Taking pen to paper and expressing your love, friendship, congratulations or condolences, sometimes even writing a practice draft on scratch paper, so once you committed to the good stationery, it would be perfect?
I’m trying to write a novel. I know, I know. Me and everyone else. I’m telling you for a reason. As I come to understand how really, really difficult it is to write good fiction, it’s making me think hard about literary criticism. ¶ I’ve reviewed books in the past, on radio and for newspapers. I still send mini-reviews to a list of friends and family when I read something I really like.
It’s hard to believe that Brooklyn was once Manhattan’s ugly stepsister, an embarrassment, especially for creative types who wanted nothing more than to make what author, editor and Brooklynite Norman Podhoretz called “one of the longest journeys in the world”: going from his native borough across the river to the literary elite in Manhattan.