• My favorite books of the 2010s

    I’ve read about 500 books during the past decade. Way back in 2010, my reading ratio was 80% fiction and 20% nonfiction, but 10 years later, it’s closer to 50/50. Which made putting this list together a lot easier than I thought.

    So without further ado, here are the novels and nonfiction tomes that I enjoyed the most during the 2010s. If you’re looking for something interesting to read, you can’t go wrong with one of these books.

    (Note: Not all were released during the past decade.)

    Fiction

    1. “The Guernsey Literary and Potato Peel Pie Society” by Mary Ann Shaffer and Annie Barrows
    2. “The Night Circus” by Erin Morgenstern
    3. “11/22/63” by Stephen King
    4. “The Golem and the Jinni” by Helene Wecker
    5. “Dead Harvest” by Chris F. Holm
    6. “The Girl Who Played With Fire” by Stieg Larsson
    7. “Secrets From The Vinyl Cafe” by Stuart McLean
    8. “Stories from the Vinyl Cafe 10th Anniversary Edition” by Stuart McLean
    9. “Mr. Mercedes” trilogy by Stephen King
    10. “N0S4A2” by Joe Hill

    (Honorable mentions: “The Institute” by Stephen King, “The Outsider” by Stephen King, “The Red Notebook” by Antoine Laurain, “The Name of the Wind” by Patrick Rothfuss, “The Uncommon Reader” by Alan Bennett, “Invasive” by Chuck Wendig, “A Walk in the Woods” by Bill Bryson, “The Year of Pleasures” by Elizabeth Berg and “Catching Fire” by Suzanne Collins)

    Nonfiction

    1. “Isaac’s Storm: A Man, a Time, and the Deadliest Hurricane in History” by Erik Larson
    2. “Life’s That Way” by Jim Beaver
    3. “Food Rules: An Eater’s Manual” by Michael Pollan
    3. “The Day the World Came to Town: 9/11 in Gander, Newfoundland” by Jim DeFede
    4. “The Devil in the White City: Murder, Magic, and Madness at the Fair that Changed America” by Erik Larson
    5. “The Feather Thief: Beauty, Obsession, and the Natural History Heist of the Century” by Kirk W. Johnson
    6. “The Little Book of Hygge: The Danish Way to Live Well” by Meik Wiking
    7. “Tell Me Where It Hurts” by Dr. Nick Trout
    8. “Voices in the Ocean: A Journey into the Wild and Haunting World of Dolphins” by Susan Casey
    9. “My Lucky Life In and Out of Show Business” by Dick Van Dyke
    10. “The Guinea Pig Diaries: My Life as an Experiment” by A.J. Jacobs

    (Honorable mentions: “Drama” by John Lithgow, “Neither Snow nor Rain: A History of the United States Postal Service” by Devin Leonard, “Truth Be Told: Off the Record about Favorite Guests, Memorable Moments, Funniest Jokes, and a Half Century of Asking Questions” by Larry King, “One Summer: America, 1927” by Bill Bryson, “Dead Wake: The Last Crossing of the Lusitania” by Erik Larson, “The Library Book” by Susan Orlean, “Beware of Cat: And Other Encounters of a Letter Carrier” by Vincent Wyckoff and “Rest in Pieces: The Curious Fates of Famous Corpses” by Bess Lovejoy)

  • Typewriter - Once upon a time

    My 10 favorite fictional authors

    In a world where authors are told to “write what you know,” it’s not surprising that so many novels feature characters who write for a living.

    I sense these stories appeal to other writers or aspiring writers or bibliophiles. Since I am two of the three, I’m utterly drawn to such tales. Here are my 10 current favorites fictional authors:

    * Joan Wilder, “Romancing the Stone”
    * Karen Eiffel, “Stranger Than Fiction”
    * Richard Castle, “Castle”
    * Jack Torrence, “The Shining”
    * Temperance Brennan, “Bones”
    * Gil Pender, “Midnight in Paris”
    * T.S. Garp, “The World According to Garp”
    * Mike Noonan, “Bag of Bones”
    * Jamie, “Love Actually”
    * Paul Sheldon, “Misery”

  • Dear ghost,

    The gas man came today, and filled the tank for the fireplace. I didn’t request that he do this — had forgotten the task entirely — but it seems you were responsible.

    The bill left behind by the gas company says it’s September. I hadn’t noticed the time passing, but I guess that explains why the nights have grown cooler. Had I realized the season, I probably would’ve wanted a fire to take the chill off. Instead, I just wrapped the wool tartan, the one you bought for me in Scotland during our honeymoon, around my shoulders and shivered.

    Now that the tank is full, I suppose I could turn on the fireplace. Truth be told, the very thought of doing so, of flicking that switch, hearing the gassy whoosh and watching the blue flames erupt into a fiery dance makes me even sadder.

    I always wanted a fireplace, dreamed of it for so many years. And finally, after much scrimping and saving, we were able to afford a house that had one. How many nights did we sit by the fire, draining the tank of all its fuel? How many days did we cuddle on the couch underneath the red blanket and watch the snow fall?

    What was once a dream, and then a reality, has now become just one more reminder that you are gone. Ghosts don’t need a fire to see, or a fire to read by, or a fire to snuggle close to the one you love.

    I’m loathe to admit it, but sometimes, it feels like I’m a ghost, too. No doubt you’d hate that I feel this way, but I can’t help it. Ever since you left, I’ve been haunting these rooms. I forget to eat. When I get out of bed, I find half-filled cups scattered on tables, the once-white insides dyed a dreary brown from forgotten tea. Copernicus would probably starve if it wasn’t for the automatic feeder, which I probably should fill again. I took a bath yesterday; I was so lost in thought remembering that time we foolishly left the trail in the woods that the water cooled and shriveled the skin on my fingers before I even noticed. Oh look, my slippers, have a hole. Where did that come from?

    As I placed the gas company notice in the mail basket, I saw a rather large pile of unopened mail there. The letters and catalogs and magazines just pile up under the slot until I trip over the paper mound, but I’m always too tired to do more than toss them into the basket on the desk. Soon I will need to buy a bigger basket.

    Anyway, I don’t mean to complain. This is my life now. So thank you for ordering the gas in advance, for taking care of me when I no longer want to bother. Even in death, you are so thoughtful.

    Love,
    Me

    –Bit of fiction inspired by this article in The New York Times

  • The things I do to make up stuff

    Many of you know that fiction is not my forte. I love it. I read it all the time. But decades spent working in journalism has caused my imagination to atrophy.

    The difference in the two forms of writing is palpable; instead of doing sprints, I’m trying to run an entire marathon, which, as you can guess, is no easy task. Still, I’m determined to write this novel and write it well. At the moment, I’m smack dab in the middle of the research phase; I’m reading related books, jotting down ideas, creating characters and writing various scenes.

    Some novelists start with the dreaming phase, then move into research before writing a word. I’m going about it from the other direction as a way to best transition the skills I’ve honed from the territory of nonfiction into the make-believe realm.

    Researching before dreaming also provides me with a better sense of time and place, much the same way a painter paints the background of a picture before focusing on the details in the foreground. Once the world is formed, the characters can fill it.

    Over the years, I’ve tried various forms of organization, including outlines, emails, snowflakes, blueprints and clouds. While I have no doubt these methods work for others, none gave me the clear picture I needed to move forward with my fiction. For this book, I’m going with a technique that’s both familiar and easy-to-understand: the murder board. Fans of “The Closer,” “Castle” and “Elementary” will know exactly what I mean, but for those of you who are unfamiliar, it looks something like this:

    murder board

    I’m writing notes on legal-lined yellow stickies, keeping track of research in trade paperback-sized notepads and tacking everything up on individual corkboards that have been affixed to the back of my office door.

    Unless the air conditioner is on, I generally keep the office door open while working on the news. Closing that door is just one more sign to my muse that I’m ready to get down to the business of pretending.

    Other signs? Well, there’s an actual sign that hangs on the front of the door that says: Novelist at work. Its message is more of a reminder to me than to others.

    When I work on my novel, I shut down my email program and hide my browser. I don a necklace that features a quote from Ray Bradbury. And I sit at my desk with an ice chai latte, a drink that I discovered while living in Seattle in the early oughts. After two years of drinking the beverage while writing fiction, a Pavlovian response developed in my brain that permanently associates the two.

    These efforts may seem like silly writing superstitions, or perhaps even crutches. I don’t care. My muse likes to be wooed.

  • Chapter 1

    Spending Saturday night with my two favorite men

    Due to circumstances beyond our control, time and money will be in short supply in the near future. With this in mind, M and I decided to go out for dinner and a movie. Better to enjoy the moment than stress about what had already come to pass.

    While waiting for the entrée to arrive, we discussed the origin of my new book’s hero. I had a general plot line in place, but my muse still hadn’t introduced me to the novel’s protagonist or explained how to invite him into the story. M’s a great sounding board for such things because he’s a reader, and thus able to recognize good storytelling. So there we sat, munching on bread and spit-balling ideas on how to get this ghost of a character to reveal himself.

    As we talked, I realized once again how much I adore my husband. First, he didn’t mind spending time listening to me go on and on about the other (albeit fictional) man in my life. He also made the perfect suggestion about my hero’s backstory. As soon as he said it, I felt like I’d been struck by lightning. This idea was so good the hair on the back of my neck stood up. And that’s when the character stepped out of the ether and into my Imagination.

    I could see him. I could even deduce his name.

    Although the server brought our food then, I no longer wanted to eat or watch the movie. But I wasn’t about to reward my spouse’s generosity by bailing on him, which is why I ate and headed to the theater. After we arrived back home, I strode into my office, grabbed a notepad and started writing.

    Inspiration had arrived!

    –Photo by AlexStar