Today's guest blogger, bestselling author Wendy Corsi Staub, thinks back to the Christmas she received the most perfect gift from her mother --- a copy of the timeless and beloved LITTLE WOMEN --- and the literary heroine she discovered within those pages.


Christmas was, in my small-town childhood, everything it's supposed to be. It was all about tradition: family, friends, Santa, church, parties, lights and decorations, sledding and skating, giving and receiving gifts, baking cookies, volunteering our time and giving to charity, watching annual TV specials together, perpetually hearing carols on the piano, stereo, and car radio.

And then there was the snow. Having grown up in southwestern New York's blizzard belt, I remember white Decembers, always. Reeeeeeeeally white. As in, three or four feet --- sometimes more --- of white. When I reminisce about childhood Christmases, it's like peering at a festive scene through a swirling snow globe.

The celebration always began Thanksgiving Day, when my father drove the long way from one set of grandparents' house to the other (for our second meal) in order to see the candy cane lamppost decorations lit up along Central Avenue. No school the next morning, and we kids were up early to stack the stereo spindle with our collection of vinyl albums (Perry Como, Bing, Barbra, and our favorite: The Partridge Family). The merriment lasted through New Year's Day, when my parents came home from a night of dancing to serve a wee-hour breakfast to a houseful of friends, then managed to get us all to my grandparents' house by noon for their once-a-year homemade egg pasta.

Yes, it was all about tradition.

White candles in the windows, seafood on Christmas Eve, incense at midnight mass. Taking turns opening gifts in chaotic living rooms crammed with wrapping paper and homemade cookie platters and people and noise. Milk spilled, candle wax dripped and hardened on tablecloths. There were instantly broken toys, toys without batteries, unassembled toys that were impossible to put together. Toddling cousins tripped, toppled. Teetotalers tippled. There was caroling. There was, of course, plenty of snow. There was love --- plenty of that, too. And there was LITTLE WOMEN.

Oh, that last one? That's mine alone.

One December when I was about nine, I had checked Louisa May Alcott's classic out of the library and read it cover to cover over Christmas break. Meg, Jo, Beth and Amy --- I fell in love with the March sisters that year. I could relate to all of them on some level. Of course, I had a special affinity for Louisa May's alter-ego, aspiring author Jo, because I had long dreamed of becoming a writer, too. And I was clumsy, just like her.

How well I remember curling up on snowy nights with that beloved book. It might have been written over a century earlier, but it mirrored my own life, filled as it was with cozy family gatherings and snowy, festive, small town scenes.

I was as proud as Marmee of the March sisters for giving up their own Christmas breakfast for their destitute neighbors. I rejoiced when Meg had her twins, cried when Beth died, was properly surprised when Jo turned down Laurie's proposal and then he and Amy, of all people, found each other abroad and fell in love.

The following year at the library, I read everything else Louisa May Alcott had ever written. When Christmas rolled around, I checked out LITTLE WOMEN again, nostalgically rereading it amid cookie baking and gift wrapping. My mother, from whom I inherited my love of books, became interested and read it too, so that we could discuss it. That's the kind of mother she was.

My mother, too, loved the story. And she, too, saw writer Jo in me.

I don't remember her commenting on my re-reading LITTLE WOMEN the following Christmas, or the one after that, but she probably noticed that the same library book appeared around our house every December. She must have, because on Christmas morning when I turned thirteen, I found under the tree a gorgeous, leather-bound copy of LITTLE WOMEN. It has a green satin ribbon bookmark stitched into the binding, and original pen and ink illustrations. On the inside cover, it's inscribed in pencil in loopy, middle-school girl script: Wendy Corsi, Christmas 1977.

The book hadn't been on my Christmas list. I hadn't thought to put it there. But I realized, when I saw it, that I had wanted it more than anything. It was the perfect gift, from someone who knew me better than anyone --- and loved me more than anyone.

Over thirty years later, I treasure my copy of LITTLE WOMEN. In fact, I glanced around for it as I began writing this essay and there it was, as always: about ten inches from my right elbow on the bookshelf just beside the desk where I have written over seventy novels of my own. I am, like Jo March, a writer.

As they say, there's no place like home for the holidays. I left that small town for good at twenty-one, moving to New York City, where I remain today with my husband and children. And I lost my beloved mother much too young, to breast cancer. I miss her every day of my life, but always, in particular, at Christmas.

Yet whenever I open my own dog-eared leather-bound copy of LITTLE WOMEN, I'm transported, for just a little while, back home, to cozy childhood Christmases surrounded by love.


Tomorrow, photographer Kevin Rivoli discusses how he became interested in taking pictures, and the set of books that helped him pursue his lifelong passion.

Labels: Dead Before Dark, holiday-blogs-2008, Wendy Corsi Staub

Eileen Goudge, author of DOMESTIC AFFAIRS, reminisces on her first introduction to "adult reading material," and the gift that --- decades later --- keeps on giving.


I remember the anticipation I used to feel, as a child, with Christmas approaching. I would poke and prod the presents under the tree, in the hope of their giving up their secrets (they never did). But there was one kind of present that was always easy to identify without too much guesswork --- the kind that didn't come in a box and that was roughly the size and shape of the most treasured items in my trove of treasured items --- that of a hardcover book. Other kids might delight more in receiving the latest cool toy, but for me, from the time I first learned to read, some of my favorite gifts have always been books.

When I was ten years old, Santa brought me a copy of the GOLDEN TREASURY OF POETRY (compiled by Louis Untermeyer and illustrated by Joan Walsh Anglund). It was a book that changed my life. Up until then, poetry for me had fallen squarely into the province of adult reading material --- which is to say, boring. I knew nothing of Emily Dickinson or Ralph Waldo Emerson or Longfellow. . . or even Ogden Nash. The only verses with which I was familiar were those of nursery rhymes. Suddenly, here was a wealth of stories --- yes, stories --- which only incidentally happened to be told in verse instead of prose. I became entranced by the tales of Lorelei. . . Paul Revere's Ride. . . Inchcape Rock. . . and others. I discovered the immortal words of William Blake, "To see the world in a grain of sand. . . and heaven in a wildflower," which have stayed with me all these years and become even more meaningful with the passage of time. And I can't look at a winter landscape without thinking of Robert Frost's "I took a walk on a snowy, winter day."

I still have that treasured copy, frayed and dog eared and missing its spine. I refer to it often, when I'm in need of a smile, some inspiration, or occasionally a quote for one of my novels. Through the years, I have also given various editions of it --- happily it's still in print --- to the children in my life. I hope those children have gotten from it at least some of the joy it's given me. If you have a child in your life who loves to read and for whom you're looking for that special gift that no one else will give him or her, I highly recommend it. It may not be the most exciting-looking present under the tree, but it will truly be the gift that keeps on giving.

Merry Christmas (and Happy holidays) to all, and to all a good night.

Check back tomorrow, as Wendy Corsi Staub reminisces about family holiday rituals, and the private tradition she shared with her mother.

Labels: Domestic Affairs, Eileen Goudge, holiday-blogs-2008

Today's guest blogger, John Addiego --- author of THE ISLANDS OF DIVINE MUSIC --- recalls an unexpected, but life-changing gift he received from his mother at a time when he probably needed it most.

I remember a book my mother gave me for Christmas. I come from a large and generous family, survivors of the Great Depression who were barely able to feed and clothe themselves. They lavished gifts on each other and all of us kids in the 1950s. Every Sunday, we had dinner at my grandparents' house --- a huge pot of rigatoni in a roast beef and marinara sauce, feeding about 25 people. We had the same each Christmas Eve, followed by gift-giving; and in the beginning, everybody gave everybody else a gift. The geometric progression of 25 squared is 625. The local Woolworth's must have loved the Addiego family, though my grandmother always gave me soaps and colognes shaped like cars and baseball bats from the Fuller Brush or the Avon lady. When I was five or six, one of my aunts gave me cowboy chaps, and my dad said that a kid would have given an arm and a leg for that when he was my age, and I imagined this literally.

I think it was my Aunt Rose who came up with the name-in-the-hat process the next year to curb the useless consumption. I remember getting a Perry Como Live in Las Vegas record from one of my adult cousins when I was about ten, and I must have told him something like, "Imagine how excited I was when I opened this."

We may be heading for another time when the only thing we have to fear is fear itself, and the men and women of my parents' generation still have a lot to teach us about giving and receiving. My mother gave me a book in my mid-teens that sits on my shelf, forty years later, frayed about the edges from use, and I want to tell you a little about this Christmas gift of long ago.

First, my mom comes from Scottish-Americans who found their way to California in 1845. She married into my dad's Italian Catholic clan, and when I was a child she always seemed Lucy to his Ricky Ricardo, a somewhat madcap blond bohemian in jeans and sweatshirts. She was a talented musician and painter, and she always read late into the night, and I've always hoped that she didn't sacrifice all of her best ambitions to motherhood. My parents split up when I was twelve, and there were hard years for her, and for the rest of us, too, but especially for her. Her husband left, her little brother died, her back needed surgery; her house started to fall apart, and she had two sloppy teen-aged boys, my brother and me, hitting wiffle balls across the living room.

Poor Mom.

When I was sixteen, I fell from grace as an athlete in ways similar to a character in my novel: my eyes got bad, my knee was badly injured. It seemed apparent that I wasn't going to be a Major League baseball player (not that this prospect had ever been viable). I started reading, and that Christmas Mom gave me a book of poetry, THE COLLECTED POEMS OF E.E. CUMMINGS.

Who would give a pink book of poetry to her sixteen-year-old son? The cover is piglet pink, the photo on the jacket flap a close up of a bald old man with deep, amazing eyes. I'd never seen anything like these poems, and I fell in love with their playfulness and sensuality, with their sprung rhythms and mysteries. I read them over and over, and I can still recite several of them; I carried this odd, pink book in my knapsack on long walks into the hills of the Berkeley Regional Parks and read them under eucalyptus trees and dreamed about my life's journey.

We don't know where we're headed. Our belts may tighten, and gifts may become more precious. As many of us hope that this new First Family will inspire us beyond fear and depression, I'm reminded of the simple, eloquent beauty of a book my mother gave me long ago at an age when I must have needed it.

Tomorrow, Eileen Goudge shares with us a collection of poetry she received at the age of 10, which she often still gives as gifts today.

Labels: holiday-blogs-2008, John Addiego, The Islands of Divine Music

Though she had us in stitches with her debut novel, RULES FOR SAYING GOODBYE, Katherine Taylor's particular brand of humor isn't always appreciated. . . especially around the holidays, when family chaos typically ensues. Here, she muses on the year she decided to give her parents and siblings self-help books, and the disastrous events that followed.


Just before Thanksgiving, my brother's girlfriend had killed his pet snake with a cleaver. My brother saw this as just a casual blip in their relationship. The snake murderer was invited to Thanksgiving dinner. Dinner with sharp utensils! In my childhood home! She and my mother shared a beet salad. My mother called her "sweetheart" and "darling" and insisted the two of them sit next to each other. The gushing, phony conciliation drove me bananas, and that holiday weekend culminated in a screaming, crying, door-smashing altercation between my mother and two brothers and me, all promising never to speak to one other again.

By December 24th, my beleaguered father had persuaded me to come home for the holidays. "Forgive your mother," he pleaded. "It’s Christmas." Reluctantly, and at the last minute, I drove home from Los Angeles to Fresno.

Caught without gifts, I bought presents at the only place open after dark on Christmas Eve: the chain bookstore in my small hometown. For my explosive brother with the awful girlfriend, ANGER: A Guide For Men. For my erratically depressed mother, THE ANXIETY & PHOBIA WORKBOOK. For poor Dad and for my youngest brother, who during family fights usually tend to keep their ears plugged, copies of THE NARCISSISTIC FAMILY: Diagnosis and Treatment.

These gifts did not go over enormously well.

Christmas ended in more tears. Hurt feelings went on and on.

The self-help books from that Christmas still line the shelves in my parents' library, along with some wiser gift choices from over the years --- Marilynne Robinson and Denis Johnson, last year's Leo Lerman's journals, a leather-bound series of the complete works of Hemingway, a first-edition Mark Twain I got for $100 at a used book store in Tulare.

I don't know why my parents keep the self-help books from that extremely unpleasant holiday season. Probably it's their overall reluctance to get rid of any book. It could be an ongoing punishment for my having ruined Christmas with books no one else thought were very funny. Partially it may be a subtle (and certainly necessary) reminder, when my brothers and I come home every year and under holiday pressure inevitably revert to our most obnoxious childhood selves, not to let snake murderers or life's various intruders interrupt the peace in a family, and to be kind to each other in the end.


Tomorrow, John Addiego shares with us gift-giving traditions from his childhood, and the most memorable present of all.

Labels: holiday-blogs-2008, Katherine Taylor, Rules for Saying Goodbye

At an early age, bestselling author Mary Kay Andrews discovered one of the greatest pleasures that reading can bring --- the ability to forget your surroundings and lose yourself in a great story. Here, she recalls how this epiphany came about while unwrapping a copy THE SWISS FAMILY ROBINSON on Christmas day.


On Christmas morning, 1960 --- or was it 1961? --- I unwrapped a gift with feigned delight and surprise. The gift was an illustrated copy of SWISS FAMILY ROBINSON. I'd actually discovered the gift a few weeks before Christmas, and seeing the gift tag with my name on it, I'd given in to temptation and slyly unwrapped it. I must have been only six years old, but I was already reading before first grade --- thanks to my older sister Susie, who, growing tired of having to read aloud to me, simply taught me to read myself.

I can remember taking the book --- was it one of those large-format Golden Books editions? --- and crawling into my mother's ironing cupboard to read it in secrecy. I was immediately transported to a place of wonder: a deserted desert island, a shipwrecked family of four fun-loving sons, and their ingenious, inventive father and mother, who created an amazing home from them, built from the wreckage of their ship and whatever was at hand on the island.

I read and loved that book until it was in tatters. My sisters and brothers loved it too, and inspired by it, we built tree houses, forts, and even made one ill-fated attempt at a raft made from palm fronds. A note to would-be raft-builders: palm fronds lashed together with jump ropes will not actually produce a navigable craft.

Later that year, our parents took us to see the Disney version of SWISS FAMILY ROBINSON, a movie we would see again and again in our youth.

From SWISS FAMILY, I went on to devour other books dealing with families, and children, devising homes from cast-offs and junk. I adored The Boxcar Children, by Gertrude Chandler Warren, and was entranced with the notion that orphaned children could live alone, without grown-up supervision. Later, at our library's Bookmobile, I found the Borrowers books, by Mary Norton, which followed the adventures of a thimble-sized family who make their home under the floorboards of the "human beans" and borrow things like thimbles and buttons to furnish their home.

Today, I did a little research on my childhood favorite, and learned that SWISS FAMILY ROBINSON was written in 1812 by a Swiss pastor, Johan David Wyss, who told the story of a Swiss family shipwrecked in the East Indies, en route to Port Jackson, Australia. Wyss's book was not meant to be an adventure story, but rather an inspiration to teach his four sons virtues such as piousness, frugality, husbandry and cooperation. The Robinson name was borrowed from Daniel DeFoe's tale of ROBINSON CRUSOE. And imagine my surprise to find that the '60s television series "Lost in Space" with their own Robinson family, was a Sputnik-era adaptation of Johan Wyss's novel.

With my early fascination for homes and families, it's no surprise that the stories I write today return again and again to themes revolving around contemporary women and their search for, and yearning for, the solace of home --- and family.

To this day, unwrapping a new book on Christmas morning is still a special joy, and to this day, I long for the delicious sensation of crawling away into seclusion, to lose myself in a world of wonder.


Join us tomorrow, as Katherine Taylor hits some sore spots with her less-than-subtle choice of holiday presents to her family.

Labels: Blue Christmas, holiday-blogs-2008, Mary Kay Andrews

Today, bestselling author Rita Mae Brown --- whose latest cozy holiday mystery, SANTA CLAWED, was featured in last week's Bookreporter.com Basket of Holiday Cheer Contest --- recalls one of the most poignant gifts she's ever received from an old and dear friend, while she provides us with a taste of the vast literature on the subject of foxhunting.

Women pay good money to have their skin abraded. Layers peel off and the lady in question, once the red quiets down, soon has her cheeks covered with dewy skin. Painful, but as Mother always said, "A woman must suffer for beauty."

This sentiment never carried much weight with me. However, on December 20, 1980, I was receiving this treatment for free thanks to tiny bits of sleet slamming into my face on a cold day.

I was foxhunting (Americans don't kill foxes, we chase them, so don't get your knickers in a twist) and it had been a decent day. Half the field, the cold making bones ache, had already ridden back to their trailers. Not me. While I can't claim to be a fabulous rider, I'm tough and I was out there to hunt.

Dr. Herbert Jones, one of my best friends, led the Hilltoppers, which is also called Second Flight. They may take lower jumps or go through gates. My horse had thrown a shoe on Thursday's hunt, so I'd borrowed one from a friend. Suffering a rare bout of prudence, I elected to ride with the Hilltoppers.

What a wonderful time I had, because Herb could put you in the right place to see the fox pop out. Foxes, beautiful and wonderfully smart, are a joy to behold. We beheld quite a few, the compliment being returned for the foxes if hounds weren't close behind, often took a moment to behold the apparition of humans and horses. I thought we looked splendid, but I'm not sure what they thought.

After three hours, the huntsman, Jack Eicher, lifted the hounds and we walked the mile and a half back to the trailers. By now my face was numb, and I knew I still possessed fingers and toes but I couldn't feel them.

"Sweetie pie, come up here and ride with me," Herb called out.

It's an honor to ride back with the Field Master (First Flight), or the Hilltopper's Master, so I hastened to draw alongside him. What a dashing sight in his top hat and scarlet coat. He could have ridden right out of a nineteenth-century print.

We chatted. He asked me what I thought of the hound work, and I replied, "Fabulous," for it usually was and still is for Farmington Hunt Club.

"When you get him put up come by my trailer. I have your Christmas present."

I'd brought his, too, for one usually gives gifts to foxhunting friends at the hunt closest to Christmas Day. The English go out on Boxing Day, December 26, which is when they might exchange gifts.

Of all sports, foxhunting has produced the largest number of volumes, some literary, some not, in the English language. This fact comes via a question asked by The Manchester Guardian Weekly in 2007 (I think it was 2007). At any rate, what a wealth to choose from to give as gifts, to savor at home after a bath when the chill has fled the bones.

Captain Pennell-Elmhirst (1845-1916), who wrote as "Brooksby," wrote THE BEST SEASON ON RECORD. His descriptions of various hunts during the last quarter of the nineteenth century delighted me. These wonderful books are out of print, so I rooted around and finally found one. That was my Christmas present to Herb.

He usually gave me books, too, and 1980 proved to be no exception. I opened the carefully wrapped book to discover MEMOIRS OF A FOX-HUNTING MAN by Siegfried Sassoon. I'd always wanted this book but, somehow, had never gotten around to finding it.

Sassoon, born in 1886, was a physically beautiful man and a talented one. He survived the hell of World War I, and wrote prose and wonderful poetry. Unfortunately, he's always been overshadowed by Wilfred Owen. Perhaps it helps to be killed in battle.

The moment I read, "Sitting here, alone, with my slowly moving thoughts, I rediscover many little details, known only to myself, details otherwise dead and forgotten with all who shared that time; and I am inclined to loiter among them as long as possible," I was enchanted. Enchantment turned to passionate involvement, for here was a writer who could bring the people back to life. I know his Aunt Evelyn, Tom Dixon and all the others. The horses are perhaps even more vivid for me than the humans (in real life, too) and here was a man who walked out hounds. Many hunt, but few walk out hounds, so I fell in love with him.

His style, unassuming and quiet, is at variance with today's bombast and outright crudity. There has always been crudity, but it wasn't sanctioned by the greater culture until our time, which may be remembered for many things, not the least this vulgar parade. I'm not talking about sex (which may or may not be vulgar), but vulgarity, which is much broader. Good thing Sassoon is beyond all this now, for he would be appalled.

His description of his very first hunt as a boy stays with me. In fact, most all of it stayed with me, but at the time how could I know some twenty-eight years later that I would still pick up the book, touch the pages --- for the typeface is cut into the high quality paper --- and read aloud?

I might warn you here that I love Turgenev, Tennyson, Edith Wharton, etc. I'd mention other authors, but this would turn into twenty-some pages. I love command of style, and I love style that need not and does not underline the obvious. I can read between the lines. Having my nose shoved in it is an insult. Sassoon opens a door. You walk through it.

What informs this memoir, deepens it, is the shadow of World War I, for he wrote it in 1926. Sassoon started MEMOIRS OF A FOX-HUNTING MAN in October, finishing it eighteen months later.

Every now and then I think of writing Memoirs of a Fox-Hunting Woman, but I know I couldn't touch him.

Herb, who fought in Korea, is gone now, too. I hope he's had a chance to talk to Cpt. Pennell-Elmhirst and Siegfried Sassoon. Better, I hope they're all galloping over undulating meadows, long fingers of woods bisecting same with foxes galore. If there aren't horses and hounds, it can't be heaven.

Whoever is reading this probably doesn't fox hunt. If you do, I salute you. If you don't, I do hope you discover some of the wonderful literature this sport has produced. Perhaps there's a hunt club near you and you might see them off. It's a ravishing sight.

But, whoever you are, I hope there is something in your life that is a grand passion, something that can't be measured in dollars and cents, or in quantitative ways, something that makes your heart race and the hair on the back of your neck stand on end. Passion is everything; logic, while useful, is a rather tepid companion. Love with your whole heart, ride hard, respect other living creatures, and laugh no matter how sorry the world becomes. And do have a Merry Christmas.


Tomorrow, Mary Kay Andrews shares fond memories of the classic adventure tale, THE SWISS FAMILY ROBINSON.

Labels: holiday-blogs-2008, Rita Mae Brown, Santa Clawed

Not only do books inform and entertain, but they also have the power to mend and heal, as demonstrated by today's guest blogger, New York Times bestselling author Luanne Rice. Just as her main characters in THE LETTERS --- co-written with Joseph Monninger --- find their way back to happier times through the written word, Luanne and her sister reconnect over a childhood memory and a favorite book after having drifted apart for many years.


Holidays are supposed to be heartwarming. Families love each other. They come together, bring out their grandmother's decorations, eat traditional meals that take them straight back to childhood. The Christmas carol that always tugs my heartstrings is "Have Yourself a Merry Little Christmas," especially the line "through the years we all will be together. . ."

Except when we're not.

My parents and the grandmother who lived with us are dead. Our family house was sold. Holidays became something else --- with friends, in new places. I have two sisters, and a certain distance opened between me and one of them. I went away, she went away. Through the years we weren't so much together. And then, two Christmases ago, she gave me a book.

THE HOUSE AT POOH CORNER , by A. A. Milne.

We're grown up. She has a family of her own. I write and have cats. But this had been a favorite childhood book of hers, and in giving it to me, she brought us back together, to that time when we'd build snow forts and ski in our back yard and drink hot chocolate and decorate the tree with strands of popcorn and cranberries, and stick cloves into oranges to make pomander balls; to a time when she, our other sister, and I would try to stay awake on Christmas Eve, because my mother always told us that was the one night of the year we could hear angels singing.

The inscription she wrote is all-important, and the main reason I keep the book on my desk all through the year:

Merry Christmas! Rusty urges you to pay VERY close attention to Chapter X.
xxxxxxoooooooxxxxxxooooo

I'll explain half of what that means:

Rusty was our imaginary agent. Other kids might have imaginary friends, but even when we were little, we were of an artistic bent. I wrote, she painted, and our youngest sister both wrote and painted. Our work had to find its way into the world somehow, didn't it?

To better understand the second half of my sister's inscription, I urge you to pick up a copy of THE HOUSE AT POOH CORNER. And pay VERY close attention to Chapter X.


Tomorrow, Rita Mae Brown shares one or two of her favorite books on a subject near and dear to her heart --- fox hunting.

Labels: holiday-blogs-2008, Luanne Rice, The Letters

Here's one for all you "book junkies", as today's guest blogger, Gregg Hurwitz --- author of THE CRIME WRITER --- discusses the new tradition he and his sister began over their shared obsession of the written word.


Aside from the occasional Red Sox game, which my father --- transplanted from Boston to the Bay Area --- allowed to grace our television, my sister and I weren't allowed to watch "the Plug-In Drug" growing up. Perhaps because of this, she and I are book people. As in, Book People. We love the smell of books, the feel of them. We can't travel without books or go to sleep without reading first. When we were younger, we brought books to camp and sleepovers. We brought them on car rides, to the beach, to doctor appointments. We'd go to library sales and buy used paperbacks for a quarter each, go home, and devour them like kids popping candy after a fruitful round of trick-or-treating. And then we organized and reorganized them endlessly --- by color and size, alphabetically, by genre and series. (Yes, there is an OCD strain in ye olde gene pool). When we were well-behaved, we'd get to go to the book store (Walden, anyone?) where we'd run the aisles like berserking junkies.

As we grew older, we grew more concerned with the state of the books we bought. New hardcover: good. Putting book face down to hold place: bad. Whispering sweet nothings to your books: good. Loaning them to book infidels who touch the pages with Cheeto-fuzzed fingers: bad.

So you can imagine my delight about five years back when I strolled into a used bookstore in Brentwood and came upon a mint-condition hardcover first-edition of THE BLACK ECHO. I already owned said book, but my sister did not. Christmukkah was coming up, and I'd yet to buy her a gift. With excitement, I checked the title page and there, lightly penciled (and erasable), was the price: 5-.

Now, Mr. Connelly's Edgar-award-winning first novel, as many of you know, is worth quite a bit more than that. I snapped it up eagerly and went home to wrap it (taping the brown-paper bag closed at the top).

When my sister opened the book some weeks later, she regarded it with great delight. She thumbed through it. Sniffed the pages like a book pervert. And then she turned to the inside front cover and her face fell. Magic markered in messy cursive was a note: DEAR JANE, HOPE YOU LIKE THIS BOOK. ITS [sic] ONE OF MY FAVERITES [sic]. LOVE, SANDY.

I don't know how I'd missed it, but I knew one thing: I hated that dumb-ass Sandy.

To this day, when my sister and I give each other gifts or send e-mails, we sign them "LOVE SANDY." It keeps us mindful of those finest of holiday traditions: holding on to resentments and making fun of others.


Luanne Rice joins us tomorrow, as she revisits holidays past with a very special copy of THE HOUSE AT POOH CORNER.

Labels: Gregg Hurwitz, holiday-blogs-2008, The Crime Writer

If your mother was the Queen of Suspense, what sort of present would you expect to find in your Christmas stocking? Today's guest blogger, Carol Higgins Clark --- co-author of DASHING THROUGH THE SNOW with her mother, Mary --- answers this question, while revealing the connection between everyone's favorite teen sleuth, Nancy Drew, and her own protagonist, Regan Reilly.


It's always wonderful to give and receive books at Christmastime. One year, my mother gave me several copies of the Nancy Drew mysteries. I loved them! I thought Nancy Drew had the most exciting life. She was always in the middle of solving a mystery involving anything from a hidden staircase to twisted candles to an old estate. She had a red convertible, a great boyfriend, wonderful pals, and a terrific father. To open one of those books and become a part of her world was always such a pleasure for me.

Now I'm an author, and I write mysteries about a private investigator named Regan Reilly. Sometimes people tell me that they think Regan is a grown-up Nancy Drew. I'm always so pleased to hear it! Now I believe that Regan Reilly had her beginnings in a very special gift I found under the Christmas tree...all those years ago.


Tomorrow, crime writer Gregg Hurwitz shares a painful, yet equally hilarious memory of the Christmas he gave his sister a first edition of Michael Connelly's THE BLACK ECHO.

Labels: Carol Higgins Clark, Dashing Through the Snow, holiday-blogs-2008, Mary Higgins Clark

The first author guest for our Author Holiday Blog feature is international bestselling author Mary Higgins Clark, whose latest release, DASHING THROUGH THE SNOW --- the fifth holiday-themed collaboration with her daughter, Carol, featuring amateur detective Alvirah Meehan and PI Regan Reilly --- hit shelves this past Tuesday. Here, she reminisces on some of her "first loves," and shares what she's asked her family to get her for Christmas this year.


Even when I was little, when I rejoiced in the new doll that was always under the tree, and perhaps a new pillow and coverlet set for her carriage, looking back I can honestly say that my favorite gift has always been a book. After the excitement of opening presents, and cousins arriving and departing, and the festive dinner, I was so happy to curl up with a book in the big overstuffed chair in the living room.

I'd settle in that chair, my head on one arm, my feet dangling over the other. That was when I began my magic journey into other worlds and other lives. Some of my favorites rush to mind. GRIMM'S FAIRY TALES was blissfully reread over and over again, as was the collection of Hans Christian Anderson.

Early on, I fell in love with Jeannette Stratton Porter's book, A GIRL OF THE LIMBERLOST. I was there with that sixteen-year-old girl, deciding against her mother's wishes that she would go on to high school, catching butterflies to make money to pay for her education. I was with her in sympathy as she endured the snickering glances of her fellow students at her homespun dowdy clothes. Then, with a lump in my throat, I rejoiced over her understanding of her mother's mistaken hostility to her.

I then began to read Jeanette's mother's books. Gene Stratton Porter's FRECKLES is the one that stands out in my mind. Always a romantic, I loved the tale of the orphaned boy with only one arm who turns out to be the nephew of an Irish lord. Most of my books have happy endings too.

In recent years it has occurred to me that at that time, I could not have imagined that decades later, my daughter and I would also be novelists.

When I am working on a book, I get little chance for pleasure reading of my own. I have a generous and loving family, but this year I am asking them to do something different. I'll give each one of them the name of a book I've been wanting to read and let that be my present from them. Anything else they would have spent on me, I want them to send as a charitable donation in my name. There are far too many people in desperate need for help this year for me to enjoy expensive gifts. At the end of Christmas Day, I look forward to curling up in a comfortable chair with those books beside me, and turning the first page of the one on top.


Check back tomorrow as the second half of this power duo, Carol Higgins Clark, recalls the childhood Christmas gift that perhaps planted the seeds for the heroine of her own bestselling mystery series.

Labels: Carol Higgins Clark, Dashing Through the Snow, holiday-blogs-2008, Mary Higgins Clark

It's the Clement C. Moore story illustrated by Gyo Fujikawa. Thumbing through it I realize how much these are the illustrations I think of when I hear the words "sugarplums" and "stockings hung by the chimney."

Finding this book on my shelf inspired the feature that we are bringing you the next few weeks where authors will be sharing their favorite holiday stories of both giving and getting books at the holidays here on a daily basis. I am hoping that they inspire you to create your own holiday magic with book giving this holiday season. And may they also encourage you to put a book or two on your own holiday list.

We begin tomorrow with Mary Higgins Clark. Check back with us each day to see whose story we will be sharing.

Here's to creating holiday magic through books wherever you are.

Labels: holiday-blogs-2008

This year marked the 25th anniversary of the Miami Book Fair. For the fourth year I hopped on a plane to experience what has become one of my "must-do" events. This year the Fair had an entire track of programming about graphic novels as well as a pavillion of booths touting them at the Street Fair. Since we are launching GraphicNovelReporter.com in a couple of weeks I wanted to get to as much of this programming as possible, which was going to be a pretty intense hat trick since I usually already have a full plate of literary adventures planned while there. The answer: get there earlier and stay longer!

Thus I flew down on Wednesday to catch the evening event that celebrated the work of Will Eisner, who is a legend in the world of comics. There was an exhibit of his work from THE PLOT and other pieces hanging in a gallery where they could be viewed throughout the weekend. The panelists all knew Eisner well and hearing them talk was like eavesdropping on a conversation among people who all shared the same friend. When they were introduced I was thinking if the intros were done in shorthand it would roll something like this: The publisher, the agents, the artist and the editor. They were Bob Weil, vice president and executive editor at W.W. Norton & Company, agents Denis Kitchen and Judy Hansen, and author and comics artist Scott McCloud and Charles Kochman, executive editor of Abrams ComicArts and editor of THE WILL EISNER COMPANION.

What was interesting was the crowd. They were aged anywhere from 7 to 70. And on Saturday I would see what the impact of this talk was on one attendee that I would have not seen as a real enthusiast.

For those of you new to graphic novels and comics, you may want to note that one of the comic industry's most prestigious awards, The Eisner Award, is named after him. Recognized as the 'Oscars' of the American comic book business, the Eisners are presented annually at Comic Con.

Afterwards I went to dinner with the panelists and some fellow publishing pals at a Nicaraguan restaurant, which was in walking distance from the Fair. I love nights like this where I get to do a wind down after an event and chat a bit more in-depth about what was shared. The group was lively, the mojitos were great and I realized again that I am not sure what I learned in seven years of Spanish, but I was very good at pointing at the menu while conversation completely alluded me. I also have decided that toasted bread with a small smattering of butter on it should be served at every meal. And with great humor, as I write this, I realized I have no idea what the NAME of the restaurant was. Lissette Mendez one of the amazing Fair programming organizers walked us there. I guess if I want to go again I will need to find her.

By the way, Miami was sultry from the moment I got off the plane. Hair got curly quickly and my skin took on that "dewy glow" that one references when trying to be ladylike. I decided that a residual benefit of this trip would be a loss of water weight!

Thursday after working a bit in my room I headed for the pool at my hotel (which is a killer pool on the 6th floor of the hotel) and swam a lot of laps and then read/napped/worked, with napping sorta winning in that lineup. Getting out of town had taken its toll.

Dinner that night was at Versailles, a Cuban restaurant that one of our readers turned me onto a few years ago. Every Miami trip I try to get there at least once. There's a relaxed neighborhood familial feel to the place that I just love and kicking back there with friends was a really nice cap off to the day.

Friday I hit the pool and then headed over to the Miami Dade campus for the Day of Education about graphic novels for teachers and librarians in the South Florida area and the room was packed. We sponsored one of the panels that day where Robin Brenner, a wickedly sharp librarian from Boston gave a killer presentation on manga, specifically Otaku. Also on the lineup was Professor Adam Johnson from Stanford, who I had the pleasure of first meeting in San Diego. He's the kind of college professor who I wish I had had. In his class students conceived, wrote and designed a graphic novel called SHAKE GIRL. His presentation on this collaborative process was both interesting and moving. By the way, Adam shared that the book has been picked up by a major New York house and a deal is imminent, which is pretty cool. Two other librarians from the South Florida area, Arlene Allen and David Serchay rounded off the programming to an audience that enjoyed the day and feverishly took notes.

This also was Kids' Day at the Fair, which I usually never attend. Kids of all ages were there all day. I had come over on the People Mover, which I get a real kick out of, with a teacher who was bringing her class of students from an International school. She wanted them to experience the Fair and check out the various International offerings as well. Robin and I caught lunch at the food stands in the International area and laughed about getting sausages that were wrapped in foil sans bread or anything else one might expect with them. However, they were tasty on their own.

Friday night a group of graphic artists, writers and publishers gathered out at Books and Books in Coral Gables which was the perfect setting for a bookish evening with wine and beer. While there was great music playing in the courtyard I confess that I commandeered the group who was sitting inside where the AC was blowing. The Cafe at the store is wonderful with a varied menu and we contented ourselves to sit there til closing time FOUR hours later! We kept pushing tables together as we added people and the jokes flowed pretty quickly. Truly there was a moment where I thought, I am never going to sleep tonight since I definitely was revved from the lively banter and conversation, and my face hurt from laughing so much.

Saturday the temperatures had ratcheted up to a new high, which my friend John aptly said made it feel like we were hanging out on the equator. Yowser! I hit the pool first, before I zipped onto the People Mover again. I was the only one on the train and as we zipped along I decided that this was a lot like a tame rollercoaster. Riding in front like the driver I watched the tracks as we zipped around and around. I know, I am easily amused.

I started my day with a talk by Art Speigelman, who talked about his history in the world of comics which is portrayed in BREAKDOWNS his new book. He did a talk which was both fun and personal meandering his way through a slide presentation that felt personal and relaxed. That evening he shared that he mixes up his talk as he goes depending upon the mood of the crowd, which definitely worked. People were engaged. I was sitting next to Jim Zubkavich, one of the writer/creators from Udon Press and next to him was a woman who clearly was in her 70s or 80s. She asked him a number of questions during the presentation, which when he responded to, got him glares from the man in front of us. It was pretty amusing since Jim was torn somewhere between trying to be obliging and trying to not get in trouble. He kept shooting me looks that said something like, "HELP!"

Later the woman told me that she knew nothing about graphic novels til Wednesday night. She attended the Eisner presentation and was so excited about what she saw that she decided to go see Speigelman as well. Really nice when that happens.

Without leaving the room I was able to see Dave Barry and Frank Mc Court. I have heard them present at events in the past, but never together. Barry did a riff that made getting a colonoscopy sound like something as easy as brushing your teeth, as only he can do. He talked a bit about his upcoming book and shared that unlike McCourt his childhood was not full of misery thus he has less misery to write about where McCourt is all about misery. It was pretty amusing. McCourt took on the cause of teachers. Basically he feels that politics should stay out of the classroom and teachers should be able to create an ambiance in the room where they can motivate students. He is highly opposed to No Child Left Behind as he feels there are a lot of children being taught to test, but not to learn! Lots to think about there.

From there I went to see David Hajdu, author of THE TEN-CENT PLAGUE: The Great Comic Book Scare and How It Changed America and Francoise Mouly, who founded Toon Books. Until a few months ago I knew nothing of the ban on comics that happened in the '50s. Now I can see how this sharply impacted this corner of the world of entertainment. I have been reading Hajdu's book in between other things, and it's very interesting. Francoise is passionate about engaging children in a lifelong love of reading and the titles in her new imprint definitely draw young readers in. I have been following this line since pre-launch and it's great to hear how the story behind these books is evolving. She and her husband Art Spiegelman have a real knack for developing cool product.

I trekked over to see one of the events that I had been looking forward to with Nancy Horan, the author of LOVING FRANK, Lauren Groff, author of THE MONSTERS ON TEMPLETON and Rachel Kushner whose TALES FROM CUBA was nominated for a National Book Award. LOVING FRANK was one of my favorite books of last year. I spent time at both of Wright's Taliesin homes a couple of years ago and it was wonderful to read her book against those backdrops. I also got to see Cristina, one of our readers, who was at the Fair with her daughter, Claudia. She knew I would be at the Horan event and thus tracked me down there. She too was a huge Horan fan.

One thing I regret. One of our readers from Naples was at this event. I think she was in front of me when I stopped to talk to Nancy, but before I could say hi, I got distracted for a moment by another panel attendee with a question and missed saying hi to her. Lauren's adorable baby boy also was in the audience. Later I ran into her at her hotel and I recognized her, by the baby and got a moment to just say hi. Since I am known for misplacing how I knew people, I love that the baby was my cue!

From there I caught a portion of the presentation from Jessica Abel and Matt Madden whose book DRAWING WORDS WRITING PICTURES taught me a lot about the fine points of creating comics and graphic novels. Doing some of the exercises in this book made me realize that not only can I not draw, but I also do not have the imagination to make words look dramatic enough on the page. So much for anyone can be an artist!

In the tradition that everyone has come to expect at the Fair, The Rockbottom Remainder, the author band that readers have come to love, gave a rooftop performance. While it was not quite the Beatles in London, there was a lot of passion going on on that stage. And a lot of fun.

Saturday night a group of us headed over to the author party in South Beach, which was held at a very cool hotel. I found myself kicking off my shoes and squishing my toes into the sand knowing full well that I would not be able to do this again any time soon.. There was an amazing fire burning in a fire pit which was nice even though the night was warm. I do regret not walking out to the beach area to see the ocean. I was in Miami and never got near the salt water! At the party I got to see John Hart who I always enjoy talking to.

Sunday dawned with temperatures merifully cooler making me really happy the hotel pool was heated. I swam fast and then bolted over to the campus to again I criss-crossed it trying to catch every event that I wanted to see. I kicked off the day slipping into the 10:30 event where Mim Harrison was talking about a graphic novel, THE LIFE STORY OF WINSTON CHURCHILL. She had great background on the reaction to this book from Brits. Dan Herman, from Hermes Press talked about a Bond graphic novel. What's always interesting is how the work is reinterpreted graphically in these books and since this was the opening weekend for Quantum of Solace, all things Bond were on people's minds.

From there I caught the first part of Wally Lamb's conversation about THE HOUR I FIRST BELIEVED. As always he charmed his audience with his stories and lovely way of sharing them. I was sorry I had to dash before he spoke about his new book that I had read an excerpt from earlier that day.

In all my trips to the Miami Book Fair I never have gotten to see Carl Hiaasen, but this time I thought I could make that happen. But I was foiled again! He was on a panel with the very witty and amusing Roy Blount, Jr. Roy spoke first thus I again missed Hiaasen since I wanted to catch Frank Beddor, who wrote THE LOOKING GLASS WARS and HATTER M. Beddor is animated when he presents and by the time he was done I felt like I had watched a tightly scripted but also very engaging mini movie. Just wonderful.

I tried to get into a panel where Junot Diaz, the author of THE BRIEF WONDROUS LIFE OF OSCAR WAO was presenting. Growl. It was booked to capacity making this the first time all weekend that I could not see a panel that I wanted to catch.

Instead I took a few moments to catch my breath before moving over to where Chip Kidd and Brad Meltzer were talking about their books. Brad had high praise for the expanded graphic novel programming during the Fair. He remembered many years where he and Chip constituted all the programming in this format. He spoke about his new book THE BOOK OF LIES and also shared an update on the project he is working on with his website to raise money for the restoration of the Superman house. They wanted $50,000, but already have raised more than $100.000 through fans, which is most impressive. Chip talk about BAT-MANGA: The Secret History of Batman in Japan, his new book where he explores the way the Japanese have looked at Batman through the years. Very interesting to see how the iconic hero is interpreted overseas.

Next up was Stewart O'Nan on SONG FOR THE MISSING, David Wroblewski on THE STORY OF EDGAR SAWTELLE , Oprah's latest pick, and Margot Livesey on THE HOUSE ON FORTUNE STREET. Each book was well-presented and each author was articulate and enthusiastic. The audience questions were sharp and smart as well.

At 5:00, I caught my last panel with Brad Matsen, the author of TITANIC'S LAST SECRETS and Bryan Christy on THE LIZARD KING: True Crimes and Passions of the World's Greatest Reptile Smugglers. Both books are from one of my favorite publishers, Twelve Books. I had read most of Bryan's book, which addresses the topic of illegal reptiles in the country. I had NO idea that this was such a very big illegal industry. And Matsen's book, which had paired him with the divers from SHADOW DIVERS, one of my favorite books, made me eager to dive into reading this one soon. Both authors enjoyed conversation with the readers in the audience.

As I watched this last panel I felt the sadness I feel every year when this Fair ends. It's always so rich and so full that when the weekend draws to a close I find myself wishing there was just one more day. Seeing the enthusiastic crowds, hearing the questions from readers and spending time just talking books is inspiring.

Mitchell Kaplan, one of the founders of the Fair was beaming all weekend. He clearly loved how the event had come together. And he seemed to be everywhere with readers celebrating.

This year I decided to fly back on Monday morning instead of Sunday night. I wanted to be able to enjoy the last day instead of keeping my eye on the clock and plotting my race to the airport. It was much nicer to have time to experience the last panels and then enjoy dinner to celebrate the end of the Fair, zipping out to Rosa Mexicano for a late night pomegranate margarita and dinner, the perfect way to wrap the week.

Monday I stopped at the Versailles outpost at the airport to buy guava pastries to bring home. My marching orders were to show up with those in hand and I was happy to oblige. It was a wonderful weekend and I already have my calendar marked for my own very special 5th anniversary celebration at the Fair next November.