Secrets. Every family’s got them, and no matter how garden variety the categories may be, each one can cause its own exquisite pain. Two books I read this week delve into those secrets, the costs of keeping them, and what happens when they come out in the open: All the Things We Don’t Say by Nuria López and Buckeye by Patrick Ryan.

All the Things We Don’t Say by Nuria López

This slim collection of short stories from Spain contains six sharp looks at different kinds of family secrets: abuse, sexual assault, pregnancy, sexual orientation, adultery, and the process of dying. As most successful short story writers do, López has centered these narratives around key moments so that we’re immediately in the mix.

The story I most connected to, for personal reasons, was “The Week of Goodbye,” where the narrator recounts the process of watching their father die in the hospital on a day-by-day basis. It sounds bleak, but what López captures is instead the incredible variety of what happens: relatives who need something, a visit from an old friend, an improvement, a decline, and always, the background of the hospital itself which continues long after any one patient’s stay. This story reminded me of what can be so glorious in a short story—that finding of all of life as represented in one small set of moments.

This is the kind of book where you can read one story, close the book, and then think about the ramifications of those few pages all day long.

Buckeye by Patrick Ryan

On the other side of the brevity spectrum is Patrick Ryan’s Buckeye which chronicles life in a small Ohio town over the period of an entire life. The story centers on the Jenkins and Salt families and the way their lives entwine over time. As with All the Things We Don’t Say, there are secrets here, including adultery, sexual orientation, and abandonment, and those secrets shape the destinies of everyone involved. Because it’s such a sweeping book, Ryan can linger on the social events that background (and shape) their lives as well, including wars and the Civil Rights movement.

I happened to be watching War Sailor, a show about Norwegian merchant marines who were effectively drafted into permanent, deadly service delivering supplies during World War II, on Netflix at the same time as reading this book, which made the descriptions of Felix Salt’s time in the Navy feel especially visceral and harrowing.

Buckeye also deals with death, both sudden and prolonged, and I think the thing I will carry longest out of this reading is the way one virtual stranger aids a couple in the depth of their grief. It is simple and pure and perfect.

Both books are reserved, though, and while characters’ actions make sense, there’s a level of pulling back from their emotions that made me long for them to explore what was happening underneath. Easier in a novel than a short story, of course, but if everyone had said what they were feeling in Buckeye the actions of the characters would have had to have been different and the overall feeling would have been very different, too. And sometimes, when the conversation is had, we see how very little it would have changed anyway. In that way, Buckeye simultaneously begs you to have the conversations you’ve never had and also reminds you that you probably already know what you’re going to learn.

If you’re interested in reading about other people’s secrets, pick up a copy of All the Things We Don’t Say or Buckeye from Bookshop.org. If you use either of those links, I earn a commission.

“What if, what if, what?” is the refrain I often hear in my head as I ponder the limitless possibilities that could result from life’s choices. What if we moved to a small town? What if I went back to corporate? What if this relationship (or that) was different? And then I return to some sage advice Angela Jane Fountas gave me once, “You only get seven out of ten of what you want. You can change which seven, but you’ll never get ten.” Fitting, then, that what struck me recently about her gorgeous new book Another Kind of Symmetry is that she’d found the perfect way to explore and inhabit life’s myriad what ifs.

The book centers on twin sisters, Agni and Effie who live with their Greek-born parents in Astoria, Queens while going to college. Effie is wilder and Agni quieter, and the fact that they are twins already gives us a chance to explore two ways of blooming from the same circumstance. But because of their heritage and close family ties, we get two other what ifs: living the diaspora or returning home and whether to embrace the city or the country.

Another Kind of Symmetry begins with Agni and Effie at their grandmother’s grave in Greece, five years after she died and six years after Agni decided to stay in their ancestral village after coming for her grandfather’s funeral. They are there to dig up their grandmother’s bones after her soul has finally transitioned to the afterlife—this being just one of many chances we the readers get to see touches of Greek life that we may never have encountered before. This scene provides an early sense of the divergence of the sisters’ paths, but just enough to provide a framework for the treat of a story Fountas is about to unfold for us.

This is not a book I want to unfold for you, because one of the beauties of the way the book is constructed is in how it consistently presents us with the two sides of something and leaves us to plumb our feelings (all while enjoying a great story). The richly-drawn characters experience love and loss as they are trying to figure out their own lives and all the while the world changes around them in locations are as carefully detailed as the characters. Themes of personal identity mix with gentrification and how to love someone you don’t understand.

This is also not a book to read quickly, as much as you may find yourself wanting to. Regardless of whether you are a country mouse or a city mouse, I strongly urge you to take the time to sit with Agni and Effie and what they teach you about who you may want to be.

As for me, I may never have the fireplace I so wanted when we were looking for a house all those years ago, but I spent the last couple of weeks harvesting and processing plums, apples, and tomatoes from the garden of the place we have made our home. And I have the memories of watching Stinky and Dirty with my son when he was tiny, listening to those trucks sing a refrain whose wisdom he was probably too young to understand at the time but one that reminds me every day that everything is a choice.

If you pick up your copy of Another Kind of Symmetry from Bookshop.org, I get a commission.

A novel in sonnets would not normally be my first pick for anything. It’s an interesting idea but I’m not versed enough in the form to fully appreciate it and I’d worry that the effort to conform would be too great to really let a story sing. But something about the press release for Beyond Where Words Can Go by Richard Smith called to me and I’m delighted to say the book showed me how wrong I could be. The themes of the book also helped me think more deeply about some topics that are forever on my mind: serenity, sensuality, and schism.

Serenity and Slowing Down

A monastery is, of course, a natural setting to seek serenity and a slower pace of life. Smith’s beautiful descriptions of the lives of monks in 16th century England gave me a model to strive for as I’m remaking my own life and (literally) planting our garden anew for the next season. Depictions of monastic life aren’t new to my library, but there’s something about the spareness of the form and space constraints Smith was working with that let air into the work in a way that The Name of the Rose could not. And I found peace in the ordered life, much in the way I’ve found peace in Pico Iyer’s Aflame, and the freedom to open my mind.

…”Grace can only dawn
upon our hearts, our minds, our souls when we
immerse ourselves in God’s simplicity.”
– Richard Smith, Beyond Where Words Can Go

Sensuality versus Viscerality

Of course one of the things that opens up when you slow down is attention, specifically attention to the body. Smith actually starts the novel there:

The first thing that I notice is your hands:
big knobby knuckles, long thick fingers made
for work but spared so far—unscarred, untanned,
as if some dream-fogged toolsmith carved a spade
of ivory…
– Richard Smith, Beyond Where Words Can Go

Not having read the book’s description too deeply (lest I spoil it for myself), this careful attention spoke so loud of love that I immediately wondered about what would come later, carnal love (including gay love) not being usually welcome in a monastery. The withholding of the text, though, mirrors the withholding Simon (the narrator) must go through as he finds desire in a place and person incompatible with his chosen life, and we are immediately switched into the history of how Simon got to the monastery. But the feeling of sensuality lingers as Smith attends to all of our senses and Simon continues to long for Philip. The way Smith ends the book with a bookend image (that you’ll have to read yourself) is especially poignant.

The sweetness of all of this is darkly contrasted with visceral descriptions of the lives of the saints (“Bodies splayed / out on an icy pond until they froze. / Eyes filled with molten lead”) and the acts of the Tudor king against those he’d newly declared heretic (“The hangman slit him open, groin to chest, / and reached inside to sift through what was there.”). Thankfully, these moments are few in the book, but their rareness makes them ring all the louder (and more effectively).

Schism

I’d wondered early on why this book was set when it was, but this is as carefully chosen as the rest of the book. The roiling tumult of a capricious king raises the stakes (sometimes literally, sorry) for the rest of the story and it forces Simon, Philip, and all the other monks we come to love to make choices between serenity and devotion. Henry VIII’s increasingly petulant and self-serving acts as he shifts from Catholicism to Protestantism mean nothing is stable, regardless of what choices are made, and it’s instructive to watch the characters try to weather the times just as it’s instructive to watch the characters’ coded speech.

I’d like to tell you more about this book, but mostly I want to leave the unfolding to you as a reader. If it calls to you (as it did to me), know that you will come out of this book with a wider perspective and (if you’re like me) a deeper resolve to commit to the life you were meant to lead. Mike, I think you especially will love this book.

To experience your own awakening, Beyond Where Words Can Go is available now from Bookshop.org. If you use those links to purchase, you’re keeping indie bookstores in business and I receive a commission.

I’ve been reading voraciously lately, hungry for the kind of craft that makes me sink into a book, that I can steal and learn from for my own. This binge put me eight books ahead on my reading goal for the year, but it wasn’t going to be satisfied until I found something really worth chewing on. Enter Warlight and The Reluctant Fundamentalist, two excellent books that helped me lean deeper into the book I am working on.

Retrospective Voice in Warlight by Michael Ondaatje

I was reading an issue of Brick, a Canadian literary magazine that always stretches me and yet always feels like home, when I realized that Michael Ondaatje (a writer who is featured in nearly every issue and whose work I once loved deeply) is someone I needed to return to. I picked up his first novel Coming Through Slaughter but couldn’t connect to the disjointed narrative the way I had with The Collected Works of Billy the Kid. Then I opened Warlight and it was just where I needed to be.

“There are times these years later, as I write this all down, when I feel as if I do so by candlelight. As if I cannot see what is taking place in the dark beyond the movement of this pencil. These feel like moments without context.” Michael Ondaatje, Warlight

The story centers on two children who are left by their parents in post-war Britain in the care of a mysterious man. The dealings around them are shady and the life tenuous, but they are also held tight by a bevy of strangers. It’s a gorgeous book on the sentence level and the characters are fascinating, but what captured me and piqued my writerly senses was the way Ondaatje uses the retrospective voice. He uses it for the same reasons that I am in my next book, because children and teenagers do not have a complete view on their experiences and interjections of a later, older narrator (even if it’s the protagonist at a later stage in life) allow the reader to view a book from a second angle that enriches the story (and allows the author more control over how the book is interpreted). Ondaatje tells us exactly what he’s doing, too:

“You return to that earlier time armed with the present, and no matter how dark that world was, you do not leave it unlit. You take your adult self with you. It is not to be a reliving, but a rewitnessing. Unless of course you wish, like my sister, to damn and enact revenge on the whole pack of them.” – Michael Ondaatje, Warlight

Without that second perspective, Warlight would be a book about an abandoned boy who falls for the lover of a man who visits their strange house that dark people flit in and out of. A boy who takes risks like ferrying unknown cargo up the Thames with a man he really doesn’t know. With the retrospective voice, and the way Ondaatje lays out the sections of his book, we can see why the children were abandoned, what was really happening in the world around them, and what was on that boat (and why). There’s a completeness in this, and even if it doesn’t bring joy, it brings satiety.

In my own book, the retrospective voice also allows me to reinterpret some cultural norms in the lens of today. If I have a raft of teenage girls running around trying to find their value through their relationships to men, that is one perspective born from the world they grow up in. If the narrator can see what they are missing, the reader gets the benefit of both views. It’s something that doesn’t always need to be spelled out, but I worry sometimes when our world is tenuous what happens if it isn’t spelled out.

This is something I struggled with in The House of Eve where the (richly drawn) characters were so trapped in their own worldviews on topics like a woman being wholly responsible for a pregnancy that I worried about audiences who wouldn’t see that the author is trying to point out the flaw in that logic. Women so beat down by the patriarchy that those words would reinforce their worldviews rather than lift them up. I like that Sadeqa Johnson trusted her audience enough to make that leap, but as someone who developed a lot of wrongheaded notions from my own early reading, I am warier.

Second Person Viewpoint in The Reluctant Fundamentalist

I know everyone else read The Reluctant Fundamentalist by Mohsin Hamid ages ago when it was still new. I’d watched the movie and liked it enough that I wanted it to sit before I encountered the book. I’m glad I did because the feeling of both is much the same and the distance allowed me to encounter this beautifully-written book from a craft perspective.

The Reluctant Fundamentalist is framed around a conversation between two people in a café in Lahore, Pakistan. The narrator addresses us (ostensibly the second person) as he tells us the story of his life of leaving Pakistan, attending Princeton, getting a prestigious job, and how 9/11 changed him.

This “let me tell you a story” framework is something Henry James used in The Turn of the Screw, though without the implication of the second person address. I say implication because the audience for this book is likely American and Changez is telling us all the reasons he fell out of love with America. Hamid uses the second person very effectively from the initial warming us up with his bright-eyed adoration of the U.S., through his souring, to the very last sentence where who we the audience is and what we’ve been up to all this time is painfully clear.

What I found especially compelling about the way Hamid frames this book is that he keeps surfacing back to that conversation we are ostensibly having at the café. Unlike James, who (if I recall correctly) drops us unto a narrative and doesn’t return to the fireside until the end, Hamid consistently reminds us throughout the book that we are in conversation with him. Maybe this is why the feeling of implication works so well.

“If you have ever, sir, been through the breakup of a romantic relationship that involved great love, you will perhaps understand what I experienced. There is in such situations usually a moment of passion during which the unthinkable is said; this is followed by a sense of euphoria at finally being liberated; the world seems fresh, as if seen for the first time; then comes the inevitable period of doubt, the desperate and doomed backpedaling of regret; and only later, once emotions have receded, is one able to view with equanimity the journey through which one has passed.” – Mohsin Hamid, The Reluctant Fundamentalist

The other thing Hamid does exquisitely in this book is metaphor where the description perfectly matches something Changez was going through (above, his feelings about losing Erica) but he is very much also talking about something else. It’s masterful and you realize as you read this book that Changez (or Hamid) was very much in complete control of the conversation from the very beginning.

I’ve been experimenting with this “let me tell you a story” framework within my own novel, but just on the first page. The Reluctant Fundamentalist made me question why I’m using it if I never return to it, if there is a craft justification or if it’s just an easier way for me as a writer to slip in and it’s become something I need to edit out. Time will tell, though if I could use it even half as effectively as Hamid, I’d be very proud.

Reading All the Social Justice Books

There’s one more thing I wanted to touch on, and that’s the fact that it’s never a bad time to pick up and actually read all those social justice books you bought during the pandemic or at the height of #BlackLivesMatter. Two that have really touched me on that front lately: The Light We Give: How Sikh Wisdom Can Transform Your Life by Simran Jeet Singh and Minor Feelings by Cathy Park Hong. Singh’s book was front of mind as I was reading about Changez’s experience in post-9/11 New York, when being a brown man with a beard was a challenge at best. Singh lived that experience and his compassion and humanity is something we can all learn from. While the book touches on many, many things I think have the potential to heal us, the lesson I’m carrying forward with me every day is to look for the divine in every other human, even when their choices are something I disagree with. It’s a really beautiful, thoughtful book and one I wish I could make everyone read.

Minor Feelings: An Asian American Reckoning is a blend of memoir and cultural criticism that really hit home for me. Like me, Hong “was the beneficiary of a mid-to-late-nineties college education, when multiculturalism was having its swan song” and I hadn’t realized until reading this book how much optimism for a better world that worldview had filled me with—and how much I have failed to reconcile with what our country became after 9/11. I appreciated the depth and foresight in Hong’s writing, especially in passages like this:

“The rise of white nationalism has led to many nonwhites defending their identities with rage and pride as well as demanding reparative action to compensate for centuries of whites’ plundering from non-Western cultures. But a side effect of this justified rage has been a ‘stay in your lane’ politics in which artists and writers are asked to speak only from their personal ethnic experiences. Such a politics not only assumes racial identity is pure—while ignoring the messy lived realities in which racial groups overlap—but reduces racial identity to intellectual property.” – Cathy Park Hong, Minor Feelings

She writes, “The soul of innovation thrives on cross-cultural inspiration. If we are restricted to our lanes, culture will die.” Make no mistake, this book is a rebuke of how we relate to race in America. And it is a very good and important read, one that pushed me to think harder about some important things.

I started writing this hours ago when Biden was still in the U.S. presidential race. He was not my candidate (I wanted someone who could say the world “abortion” out loud and who would fight louder for many of the things I believe in) but he was the candidate I was going to vote for. I am not pleased that he or the Democratic Party let this linger so long. We should have had a real primary, because there is strength in testing ourselves, in finding where we are weak and in trying to grow. We have the chance now to pick someone who will challenge us to a better future. They must beat Trump, but that should be only the baseline of our expectations. What if we allowed ourselves to dream again of being the country that is stronger because of our diversity not in spite of it? What if we embrace our changing demographics and try to care for all our citizens? I don’t know who the right person is, but I hope we go forward bravely and try to really find out. Life is short and the time for change is now.

In the meantime, I’m still reading too fast; maybe it’s the already waning days of summer or the tenuousness of the past few weeks (politically), but I’m also writing and editing and that is good. I’m also returning to books that help me explore the values I want to live by. What book has stopped you in your tracks lately?