An Excerpt: The Color of Sorrow Isn't Blue

Here's another excerpt from The Color of Sorrow Isn't Blue, the latest release by Sharon K. Souza.


“Oh. Oh. Look!” Ainsley is on her feet and pointing at the water.

 

The reflection of the sun on the silvery waves hurts my eyes. I make a visor with my hand and squint until I my eyes adjust to the brilliance. Then I see what she’s pointing at.

“Whales?” Jaclyn, too, is on her feet. But she sees her error at the same instant the rest of us do.

“Dolphins!” Sissy says. “A whole school of them!”

“Pod,” Spinner corrects. “Dolphins are mammals, you know, not fish.”

Sissy turns an indignant face to the plebe who has dared to correct her. “Yes, well, mammals or not, school is certainly interchangeable with pod.”

Of course, Sissy would know.

“Although,” she concedes, “pod is the more common term.”

And Spinner, who must be smarter than he looks, gives a conciliatory nod to the woman who has fed him so well today.

Sissy and Ainsley have joined Jac and me on the starboard side. Or maybe it’s the port side. Who knows? Why don’t they call them right and left and make it simple for idiots like me? But I relinquish such immaterial thoughts in light of the frenetic activity in the water on my side of the boat.

“Six at least.” Ainsley’s voice is rich with excitement. “But it’s hard to count them!”

Their perfectly arced bodies breach the surface over and over, as if some unseen force beneath the sea is juggling dolphins. Their smiling faces come almost near enough to touch at times, as the water dances off the gleaming silver of their hides, and the sound they make is like laughter.

“They’re bottlenose, of course,” Spinner says. Maybe the most surprised among us, he’s as excited as anyone aboard his boat.

Jac digs in her pocket for her phone. “Can you believe this? Can you?” She begins to snap photos with a fury that matches the dolphins’ play.

Spinner holds up a finger as if to say wait a sec, then reaches beneath his dash and pulls out a big white bucket. “Lunch,” he says with a smile. He reaches in and pulls out something disgusting, something with lots of legs. Or tentacles. “Squid. Their favorite. Here you go, ladies, there’s plenty for everyone.” He tosses one overboard, and the frenetic activity in the water increases exponentially. “Don’t anyone be shy.”

Naturally, Sissy leads the way. She tugs up the sleeve of her sweatshirt and reaches in as though she’s mining carrots for a stew. And no surprise. Anyone who can mutilate a clam without so much as a gag, can toss a blob of squid to a hungry pod of dolphins.

Jaclyn goes next, then Ainsley. “Come on, Bree! Your turn.” They both urge me on. My sister touches a hand to the small of my back. “You can do this.”

“They’re waiting,” Jaclyn adds, with a push in her voice and an eyebrow hiked.

“Good Lord! They stink to high heaven!”

“Well, they’re not for you, love.” Sissy reaches past me and grabs another squid out of the bucket. “Let’s see who can throw the farthest.”

The farthest. As if it’s a softball-tossing match. Lord, will I ever get out of the sixth grade in this woman’s eyes?

She nudges me with an elbow. “Come on, love. LATSF.”

I stop half way to the bucket. LATSF. LA ...TSF. Launch a tasty squid, fast? I toss a frown over my shoulder.

“Look at their smiling faces,” she says. “Now, come on.”

I use my thumb and index finger like pinchers, touching as little of the slimy thing as I can and still manage to grip it. Then I reach back, careful not to drip anything on myself. On Sissy’s count of three I hurl the creature as far as I can. Which turns out not to be far at all. Because it splats against one of the aluminum poles that holds our Bimini lid up and bounces back at my feet, even squishier than it was before.

My audience laughs. Even Ainsley. And Spinner. And the dolphins. All of them laughing away. Well fine. I reach down, pick that puppy up, and send it sailing. It makes an arc against the crystal clear sky. Almost before it begins to descend, a sleek, silvery dolphin leaps and catches it midair, then does a cannonball. Right there in the middle of the Pacific Ocean, a cannonball. “You’re welcome,” I say under my breath. I reach over the edge of the boat and pour what’s left of my bottled water over my hand. It’s not enough to rinse the feel of the squid away, but it’ll have to do. And while everyone laughs and claps, all I can think is, Kinsey would love this. The thought weakens my knees. I clutch the pole for support and lower myself to the cushionless pad.

“Mama?” I love how she says this. Not like a monotone baby doll’s ma-ma, but like she’s calling me to task. Come here and explain, that’s what she says in that one, sparkling word. She’s crouched down in jeans and purple-soled sneakers that light up when she walks. She never fails to stomp her feet when she wears them. Or smile. She loves these sneakers. Her bottom nearly touches the brick patio where she squats. “What do you suppose that is?” She points at a snail inching its way up the sliding glass door that stands between the patio and our kitchen. The creature is right at her eye level.

“That,” I say, “is a snail.”

“Snail?” She scrunches her nose when she says it. “Can I touch it?”

She’s fearless, this three-year-old female version of Sam.

“Well, I wouldn’t.” That’s what I start to say, but catch myself. “Sure, baby girl. Go ahead.” I hold my breath and stifle a shiver as she reaches out and presses her little index finger against the amber shell. It has reddish-brown stripes in a pattern that’s surprisingly pretty running the length of its fragile carapace. The snail stops the moment it’s touched, pulls its slimy body into its shell, and hunkers down.

Kinsey presses again. “Why won’t it go?”

Do I tell her it’s because she’s frightened the poor thing? No. Absolutely not. “It’s resting. Like you do in the afternoon.”

“Oh.” She pulls back and watches. Waiting.

Just then, David comes through the doorway. “Hey there, ladies.” He presses his lips against my forehead—as close as he dares to come to my lips these days—and bends down and scoops up Kinsey, who laughs and calls him Daddy, and holds tightly to his neck. “Ah, what’s that?” And before I can stop him, he plucks the snail off the window and tosses it into the shrubs. Kinsey’s eyes follow its path as the smile drops off her face. My heart sinks right along with it.

“Look! Look!” It’s Ainsley again, calling me back from the place I’d much rather be. “What acrobats!”

She’s right. The dolphins’ movements aren’t random, not at all. They’re planned. Designed. I wonder which among them is the choreographer. Probably not my cannonballer. I can just see her instructor, clearing its throat, tapping its wand against a fin, calling back to attention the frolicsome one. The pod prankster.

The sun has broken through the clouds, and now that the boat is still, the blazing star sheds a blanket of warmth on us. Well, the boat is still except for the raucous way it totters on the waves, as if Neptune himself is rocking our cradle. Sissy tugs off her sweatshirt.

“Sissy.” The concern in Ainsley’s voice draws my attention. She reaches a hand toward our stepmother. “What happened?”

Sissy looks to the spot on her underarm that’s garnered Ainsley’s attention, and mine and Jac’s, too, for that matter. “Oh, that?” It’s a bruise the size of a grapefruit, all purple and puffy.

“And that.” Ainsley points to the other arm, for there’s another one just like it in almost the same spot.

“I got it, them, um ...” She’s suddenly one of her students, explaining why her homework isn’t turned in. “I fell. Off my pole.”

Ainsley pulls back, the way she does when she’s surprised. “Your pole? What, what kind of pole?”

“The, um, dancing kind?”

It’s like we’re instantly freeze dried, Ainsley, Jaclyn and me. Spinner too, except for the eyebrow that hikes up his forehead and disappears beneath the bill of his cap. His eyes lose their squint, and he turns them on Sissy.

We’re in a vacuum. No sound, no boat, no dolphins, no sea. Just this crazy vision of Sissy. With a pole made for dancing. It’s a vision I can’t quite wrap my head around. And I wonder, Does Dad know? But the vacuum doesn’t last long. It shatters in the laughter that erupts from Jaclyn. It bubbles up from her toes, this tsunami of mirth, and explodes out of her mouth. “Dancing? You were pole dancing?”

Splotches of red appear on Sissy’s neck. Oddly, that’s where her embarrassment shows. “Well, not dancing dancing. It’s an exercise class.”

“You pole dance for exercise? Whatever happened to Curves? Or Pilates?”

Sissy frowns and does her best to appear once again like the teacher in charge. “It’s quite a workout, really.”

“I bet. So how did you, you know”—Jac breaks into laughter again—“fall off your pole?”

“Oh, honestly, I don’t know. And I wasn’t even wearing high heels.”

High heels?

Spinner’s other eyebrow joins the first one, deep beneath the bill of his soiled Marlins cap. Judging by how wide his eyes spring open, those brows would be up to his hairline if he had one. I can tell by the way his open mouth turns upward that he’s gained a new appreciation for Sissy that goes way beyond her burritos.

“That’s what some of them wear,” Sissy is saying. “That, and their hot pink sports bras and these booty shorts that don’t begin to cover their cheeks, if you know what I mean. They’re all skinny. And focused. I don’t even know why they’re there. The instructor, naturally, wears the highest heels, the tightest bra and the shortest shorts. And she has this rose tattoo on the small of her back that might look cute now, but when that thing begins to sag, she’ll have thorns in places ... well, you get the idea.”

“Oh, yeah,” Jac says. “Ouch. And what do you wear?”

“Yoga pants. Floor length. And my Betty Boop T-shirt.”

Sissy’s a big fan of Betty Boop.

“And Spike? Does he go?”

“Spike?” Spinner can’t seem to help himself.

“Now why on earth would I take Spike?”

Ainsley is laughing now, too, bent over at the waist, hands on knees, not able to suck in a breath. She just hacks out this laugh that takes me back to when we were kids. If, for example, she was about to get caught in tag, she’d just buckle and burst into laughter. So naturally, everyone always went for Ainsley in tag. Now, they just go for her, period. Ainsley, the joyful one. I never understood why she’d give in without a fight, but I loved it about her. Then, because it made life easy. Now, because it’s a tiny strand that anchors me to sanity.

“Okay. Enough said.” Sissy claps her hands in that attention-getting way she has. “Now that you’ve all had your fun, can we get back to feeding the dolphins?”

But they’re gone, without a hint they were ever there. Like so many other things in my life. I sit back, stuff my hands in my pockets. And touch my starfish.
 

Available at amazon.com

Losing Our Way

I think I'll reel for a long time after what Latayne wrote on Monday: that reading a novel can leave a "shadow" in the brain that is detectable in neural scans. She's right: We did suspect all along, but to learn that the effect has been spotted by researchers! If they'd photographed angels, I'd feel hardly less wonder.

Did you ask yourself, reading this revelation, if that shadow on the brain created any noticeable effect on the reader's daily life? It turns out, there is an effect, and researchers David Comer Kidd and Emanuele Castano have noticed: People who read a certain kind of book - the kind we tend to like best here at Novel Matters - exhibit heightened powers of empathy, the ability to enter into another person's experience and emotion - not to feel for them, but with them.



But not just any book delivers the potion. You won't find it in non-fiction (surprised?) and you won't find it in every kind of fiction, either. David Comer Kidd observed, "Some writing is what you call 'writerly', you fill in the gaps and participate, and some is 'readerly', and you're entertained. We tend to see 'readerly' more in genre fiction like adventure, romance and thrillers, where the author dictates your experience as a reader. Literary* [writerly] fiction lets you go into a new environment and you have to find your own way."

It makes sense, doesn't it? A relationship with a character that forces you to "find your way" would make good practice for a real human relationship that demands the same. Another researcher, Philip Davies, took it a bit further: "The thing about novels is that they give you a view of an inner world that's not on show. Often what you learn from novels is to be a bit baffled."

None of which will simplify your life. But that may not be the point.

I'll bet you've read some books that have led you into the woods a bit - in a good way. Got any experiences to share? Please do tell. We always love to read what you have to say. 

*See that? He used the "L" word. 

Want Ad: MWF Seeks Self Assured Novel for Long Term Relationship

Sometimes I wish finding a great novel was as easy as placing an ad in the classifieds. Wanted: Hunky page-turner for trips to the beach and possible late night trysts.

Recently, I tried my hand at writing a want ad for the kind of novel I am looking for. It was a hopeless mess. But one phrase kept coming to mind:Self-assured. I need that.

I have a hard time making sense of the world. I struggle with what other people seem to grasp so well, so quickly. Small talk is nearly impossible for me. When someone asks me a question like, “How have you been?” I over answer. Worse, I tend to ask questions that make people screw up their faces and shrug their shoulders at me. My mother tells me that I’ve never seen the world the way most people do. She says this in a proud and delighted way, which makes me feel better about it.

Imagine my delight upon opening a novel and discovering within mere paragraphs a mind and imagination I could relate to. I was a kid of maybe 9 or 10, and Judy Blume had done me the favor of writing a novel called Otherwise Known as Shelia the Great. A story about a girl who over invents herself (lies) in order to be noticed and liked. I don’t remember the story as much as I remember the thought I had when reading it, “Finally, someone who speaks my language.”

It wasn’t Sheila the Great talking my language, it was Judy Blume. And without knowing it, I had fallen in love with the introspective novel—those titles we refer to collectively as literary. I searched them out. And, having found them, I searched for myself in their pages. I didn’t approach novels in order to get lost in them. I was hoping to be found.

That’s what it’s all about in a way, isn’t it? Looking for bits of ourselves that had been somehow scattered to the four literary corners of the world. Not that we knew that, not for the longest time, but when we discovered this fact, didn’t we shudder feeling exposed and excited? It was a bit like being spied on. And it was beautiful. And ugly. Or at least as ugly as we believed ourselves to be at the time. Now that we’ve read more, we know better than to call ourselves ugly. Warty, maybe. Flawed. Sometimes broken. But literature won’t leave us self-loathing. It teaches us that self-loathing is merely one of a million options for how we can choose to live.

The novel of self-discovery is one that offers neither the rose-colored glasses nor the fog of despair, but the adjustable lens of a telescope. Through it we can bring a distant moment into sharp focus and see it for what it is. The reality of the thing. But the grace of it is we can blur the lens too. Take in small frames of truth, only as much as our eyes can hold at one time. The novel will wait for us. We will go back to it, thumb its pages, reread that bit near the middle. It’s not asking us to judge, only to look, and in looking, see, and in seeing, understand.

Understanding is where grace shines. It pries into the cracks forming on the surface of our doubt. It whispers words so softly we can only guess at their meaning. It rolls us over so we can see things from another angle. And it never once tells us what to think. It only asks that we do think.

How could I condense these thoughts into a want ad, 20 words or less, seeking my perfect novel? What would your want ad read?

Beauty in Exile

Sharon and Katy have set a graceful stage this week. And the discussion has been empowering. I’ve read every comment with interest and I’m impressed by the energy and verve behind each one. Clearly writing is an art of passion for each one of you.

Many of you know, I like to dig around behind ideas and the thoughts that generate them (I bet you do too), and so the Friday wrap up of the topics of sweet spots, literary writing, and beauty will focus on some thoughts about the kind of knowledge, understanding, and chutzpah a writer might need to dive headfirst into beauty.

Katy referred to the terrifying state of ‘noble exile’, and while this sounds romantic on paper, in reality it looks a great deal like loneliness. Like your work being passed over while another writer excels. It might look like you ranting in your underwear at a computer screen because you haven’t got an agent to rant at. But lets hope it doesn’t come to that. Before you pitch the fit of the underappreciated in your under-roos, consider the benefit of this exile: the time and freedom to find out who you truly are. A truism: Writer know thyself.

The literary writer is the one who understands just enough about his or her own nature to be leery. They don’t trust easy answers because they can’t find any inside themselves. And they’ve looked. Everywhere. Beautiful writers don’t spin gold; they dance with dross until the gold shakes out. Exile gives you the time and perspective to learn the steps.

Exile gives you time to discover your true inspirations. Everyone can get behind a sure winner, that bestseller that’s just been made into a movie, that book everyone is buying. But given enough time and honesty (see above), a writer can begin to develop his or her taste. Alone with your thoughts, you can examine books that inspire you to experience beauty and why. The goal? It’s not to emulate the writers you admire; rather it is to strive to be as fully impacting as they are.

One of the comments left on Katy’s post: “I’m among you wrestling this angel.” Exile teaches you how to throw a solid right hook. Through experience, it teaches you the power of the struggle. Of why you struggle and don’t give up. Or, it teaches you that this struggle isn’t for you—that you were made for other things. Because sooner or later, the writer who strives for beauty comes to understand that the struggle never ends. And somehow makes peace with it.

Noble exile means you take the time (we’re talking years here) to learn how to ask the right questions. The ones everyone else wishes they could ask aloud. It gives you courage to stand up and say, “Excuse me, is any one as afraid as I am?”

There is courage inside that questioning fear. The courage to giggle when people talk about “branding” themselves as an author. They tinker with a catch phrase while you, the exiled one, understand what branding truly is: having a clear vision of who you are and what you care about enough to write about.

Exile is difficult. Many throw on their sun hats and run back to sweet civilization. Those who remain watch the trails of dust kicked up on the road and envy the comfort that awaits that writer. But, if they stay in exile long enough, they begin to hear the rhythmic beat, the music of beauty. Until one day it sings: Be fearless in your writing, in your vision, and when you have done all else, stand. Don’t back down. Don’t listen to the voices that come against the deep knowing you have about your vision as an artist. No market for your writing? So what. Write anyway. And let your feet begin to dance.

What about you? How's your dancing coming? Or does it look more like a wrestling match? We'd love to hear from you.

Hooked?

Just a reminder that a wonderful novel, Zora and Nicky by Claudia Mair Burney, is our May giveaway. To be eligible, make your first-ever comment to one of our blogs, mentioning this is your maiden voyage, so to speak. We'll send a copy of Claudia's book to you and to one of your friends. Instant book club! The drawing will be May 29th, so--ahem--speak up!

Back when Melville started his epic novel, Moby Dick, with "Call me Ishmael," his readers knew they were in for a ride. Most would have been familiar with the implications of such a name. Ishmael was an outcast, second rate, a bit of an embarrassment, and he was the chosen narrator. The reader was hooked.

How do you decide which book to read? I read the first sentence. If that tickles my imagination, I continue on through the first paragraph, and I may read through the first couple pages. That's when the smokin' credit card comes out.

It turns out that most people choose novels this way. That makes beginnings crucial. Beginnings must sell the story within the first sentence, a paragraph, or scene--first to an agent or editor and then to a reader.

Enter a whole book on writing the irresistible opening scene, Hooked by Les Edgerton, who identifies ten core components of an effective opening: (1) the inciting incident; (2) the story-worthy problem; (3) the initial surface problem; (4) the setup; (5) backstory; (6) a stellar opening sentence; (7) language; (8) character; (9) setting; and (10) foreshadowing. Edgerton claims the first four are the most important with the others vary by degree, depending on the story.

Egads! That's quite a balancing act!

Knowing the components of a strong beginning is one thing, constructing them artfully and effectively is another. So what gold nugget can I extract from Hooked for you today?

Beyond the components mentioned, Edgerton reveals the true need for a hook-through-the-lip beginning: Novel readers are following the same trend as the rest of society. Groan. Their attention spans have shrunk. It's up to the writer to jump into the story in such a way that the reader feels the story's current and surrenders to the ride. I'm not necessarily talking about Class V rapids, but the writer must respect the reader's intelligence, their ability to catch up to the characters and the story without tons of backstory. And by the way, no fair leaving your reader confused either. It's all a delicate dance, to be sure.

For our discussion today: Readers, what makes you commit to a novel? Writers, what components of a strong beginning shall we open for discussion and questions? Anyone, toss the title of a novel with a strong beginning out for us to snatch up.

Pardon me this indulgence. This is one of my favorite openings from The Things We Keep by Elizabeth Berg:

Outside the airplane window the clouds are thick and rippled, unbroken as acres of land. They are suffused with peach-colored, early morning sun, gilded at the edges. Across the aisle, a man is taking a picture of them. Even the pilot couldn't keep still--"Folks," he just said, "we've got quite a sunrise out there. Might want to have a look." I like it when pilots make such comments. It lets me know they're awake.

Whenever I see a sight like these clouds, I think maybe everyone is wrong; maybe you can walk on air. Maybe we should just try. Everything could have changed without our noticing. Laws of physics, I mean. Why not? I want it to be true that such miracles occur. I want to stop the plane, put the kickstand down, and have us all file out there, shrugging airline claustrophobia off our shoulders. I want us to be able to breathe easily this high up, to walk on clouds as if we were angels, to point out our houses to each other way, way, way down there; and there; and there. How proud we would suddenly feel about where we live, how tender toward everything that's ours--our Mixmasters, resting on kitchen counters; our children, wearing the socks we bought them and going about children's business; our mail lying on our desks; our gardens, tilled and expectant. It seems to me it would just come with the perspective, this rich appreciation.

I lean my forehead against the glass, sigh. I am forty-seven years old and these longings come to me with the same seriousness and frequency that they did when I was a child.

Shall we keep reading?

Roundtable Discussion: Layers of Meaning

In 2006, when asked about a popular novel, Madeleine L'engle told Newsweek, "It's a nice story but there's nothing underneath it. I don't want to be bothered with stuff where there's nothing underneath."

We've talked about those wonderful tales that "draw you in with language, imagery, character insight and a sense of place." I'd like to add to the list that "something underneath," that quality of layered meanings.

Bonnie and I talked about this on our way home from the conference at Mount Hermon, and I was surprised to discover the layers were one thing to me and something very different, something I'd never considered, to her. Since I clearly have much to learn, I'll start off by explaining my take on the subject, then let the other ladies chime in.

In The Feast of Saint Bertie, my main character observes that the pomegranate has historically been used to symbolize both life and death. That symbol plays into the things Bertie learns along her journey.

I love novels that entertain and enrich on the level of story, but that reward with deeper meaning that reader who lingers over the nuances and symbols planted within the narrative. Even if the reader doesn't linger,

these elements still work an unarticulated magic over the story by lending it an ambiance that corresponds to the spiritual dimension we feel in our own lives even if we can't explain it. A friend quoted a lady preacher she heard once, who said, "It ain't what's goin' on, honey. It's what's really goin on."

I remember that conversation, Katy. And it was amazing to learn how you viewed the various layers of a novel compared to how I saw things. I love learning from colleagues! We both agree that great novels are complex things - layered with meaning, intent, subtext, and, of course, story.

For me layers happen on at least three levels. First is the story level. This level gets all the benefit of the story and its meaning –and often much of the subtext. It's the polish of the book, the finished face that looks so good.

The second level explores the social issues the book focuses on as well as secondary issues that are mentioned and explored through sub-plot, or by some other means. It provides the context and "meat" of the book. This is the book club level – where the discussions go deeper and are often applied to the reader’s life or experience.

Third is the literary level – This is the writers tool box at work - Voice, subtext, characterization, and how she breaks the rules, or simply makes up rules to best suit her story. This is where you'll discover symbols and over arching metaphors. It is how the author used sensory details to draw the reader into the story or how he used the smaller, focused story to talk about a much larger issue. This is the engine of the book –created to be felt rather than noticed.

All these layers (and their many strategies) work together to tell, as Katy's friend's pastor said, "What is really goin' on."

I know I was driving that day, girls, but honestly I wonder where was I during that conversation?!?

I admit I feel lost in these discussions at times. I'm not sure I could hold my own in a conversation about subtext, nuances, symbols, over-arching metaphors, etc. But I know when they're there, and I know when they're not.

Cotton candy was always a disappointing treat when I was a kid. It looked so good on the outside, but when it got right down to it there was nothing to chew on. That's what a book without all the layers of meaning you're talking about is like -- just so many words without the stuff that satisfies.

That's what I love about all of your books: the care you take with the stories you craft, that leads to the satisfaction I get when I read a passage where you've used just the right word in the place of any number of words that would have sufficed, but would not have sung.

I have a growing list of novels that touch me in deep places, that incorporate the elements, as Katy so beautifully stated, that work an unarticulated magic over the story. Please leave a comment and share a title or two from your list of favorite books.

Okay, from now on, we drive together! I wish I'd been a part of that conversation. Although, truthfully, I would have been nodding my head in simpleton assent from the luggage department.

The books that layer meaning in a satisfying way, do so seamlessly. I'm rarely aware of the craft the author expended until I put the book down and immediately want to pick it back up again. My metaphor for a deeply satisfying read is a pan of brownies. I can't resist going back for another corner! (Love the crunchy edges!) I flip through the pages, looking for the secret.

I have to agree with Bonnie's notion of layering with only minor differences, mostly semantics. The story evolves out of the characters. Who are they and what's the worst possible thing that could happen to them? Answering those questions, along with focusing on their motivations and desires, builds the story, so I have to know my characters well. And the least like me they are, the more fun they are to play with every day.

Settings are characters in my stories, and this parallels Bonnie's social layer. In my first novels, creating beauty in a barren wasteland mirrored the main character's motivation to bear fruit in her pain. The setting for The Queen of Sleepy Eye was a cauldron of conflicting needs on which my character discovers grace, just like we must in our world. Indeed, this is where the book clubs dance, Bonnie.

And I so agree with Bonnie's take on the literary toolbox. Only, for me, knowing when to choose fine-grain sandpaper when I'm tempted to pull out the hammer is my area of growth these days. Craft must propel story, not be so conspicuous that story in buried.

And as Sharon encouraged, please let us know fine examples of layered meaning in novels. I desperately need to add to my TBR pile. Ha!

I racked my brain to try to come up with an example of a book with the aforementioned layers of meaning and I thought of many books (such as The Great Gatsby) that I've already mentioned before. But the one book whose layers of meaning keep unfolding for me is the Bible. I read, for instance, the Song of Solomon when I was a teenager and understood very well what it meant to be faint with love; but not until I was married did I understand "I have taken off my robe--must I put it on again? I have washed my feet -- must I soil them again?" --and then the despair in finding the opened door, the vacant threshold.

I don't think it is just the age at which I read it nor my own stage of life. I believe the Bible is unlike any other book ever written, with constantly-budding, ever-new blooming, bough-heavy fruit-laden treasures each time I open its pages.

I still gasp when I read it.

Upmarket books – what are they and why are they hot right now?

I recently sent an article to my agent, Janet Grant. It was about a type of book called “upmarket.” Since I had never heard the term, I thought I was giving her a heads-up to a new market trend. To my surprise, she replied, “Yeah, I heard this term at the San Francisco writers' conference in February; every editor was touting it.” And then she added,“So now you know how to talk about your novels...”

So what is an upmarket book? Here’s a quote from the article I read by Chuck Sambuchino,
an editor for Writer's Digest Books :

Simply put, it's fiction that blends the line between commercial and literary. To further examine this, let's break down those two terms. Commercial fiction, essentially, refers to novels that fall into a typical genre (thriller, let's say). Commercial fiction can sell very well because it usually has a tight premise/logline ("Someone is trying to kill the president!") and people like reading a category like thrillers because it's exciting. Literary fiction refers to novels that don't fit into any standard genre classification - romance, mystery, sci-fi, for example. Literary fiction requires the highest command of the language. Not pretentious, over-the-top purple prose - just simply excellent writing. . .

It has commercial potential. It has the ability to infiltrate lots of book clubs and start discussions and take off as a product. It's a win-win for everyone. I've heard a lot of agents say that they are looking for "literary fiction with a commercial appeal," or something like that. Well, one word that does the job of those six is "upmarket," and that's why you hear it so much. If you're writing narrative nonfiction or upmarket fiction, chances are, there are a ton of agents out there willing to consider your work.

Some examples of upmarket fiction (just my opinion): Water for Elephants; Jodi Picoult's books; The Lovely Bones; Michael Chabon's books.

Read the whole article here:

I can say that each of us Novel Matters writers aspires to literary excellence. We all think that something worth saying is worth saying in a memorable way, reveling in words, using to the fullest extent the precision of language and the shared delight of unexpected insight. (Oh art, we do indeed love you..)

Francine Rivers has called our own Bonnie Grove “the Jodi Picoult of Christian fiction.” Sharon Souza's careful, penetrating descriptions of heartbreaking dilemmas and the people caught up with them are masterful. Katy Popa makes desert places into characters and embues the people she writes about – some exotic, some earthy, some everywoman – with something pungent, beyond words. And I know why both Debbie Thomas and Patti Hill were nominated for Christy Awards: Each of them befriends the reader and then takes them on an adventure of wonder, a landscape of words with luscious surprises.

What do you think of this concept, upmarket fiction? Who are you reading now who qualifies for this term?