The Dam

Ever since I read Town Is by the Sea, I’ve been looking for more books with a similar muted aesthetic, as deep a tone and complex an atmosphere, and which nevertheless manage to be as fresh, original, and necessary as Town Is by the Sea. In short, I wanted more, but not more of the same.

A couple of weeks ago I arrived at my local shop and my favourite shop lady (I should get her permission to use her name on the blog…) was on the phone with the owner, Terri. She told Terri I’d just walked in (I love these people, it’s why I give them all my money) and Terri said, “Has she seen The Dam?” I hadn’t, so the shop lady handed it over, and, after the briefest glance at the cover, I helplessly gave her my credit card. Terri, even without being in the room, had managed to find me the book I’d been looking for.

The Dam.jpg

Much as in the case of Town Is by the SeaThe Dam deals with landscapes, and, above all, with changing landscapes. The story is of a town in Northumberland which was once rich in farms, people, and music. After the people left, it was to be flooded to create a lake, but before the dam was built to flood the valley, a father and his daughter bring music back to the abandoned town one last time.

Even typing those words evokes the feeling of loss so skillfully engendered by the story and makes my eyes prickle. Somehow, even though I have never been there, author David Almond and illustrator Levi Pinfold manage to bring the lost town so to life so vividly, and yet in such muted colours, that it both feels familiar and distant. Why should I feel like crying over a place utterly unknown to me? More than that, I’ve never been attached to an analogous place: the town where I grew up was small, it’s true, but was in no danger of abandonment. So why do I feel the ache of familiarity as my eyes scan Levi Pinfold’s beautiful illustrations (in charcoal, ink, pastel, and digital media) and read David Almond’s masterful text?

Two elements spring to mind: a) The music which is evoked by text and illustration seems to hover just on the edge of hearing. The rhythm of the text isn’t quite poetry, but feels very like it; the illustrations never outright attempt to “record” music (if such a thing were possible in art), but it’s suggested in the flitting rhythm of the dancing ghostly figures. Music easily speaks of loss; whether or not it’s familiar doesn’t seem to matter to, for example, Verdi. When art and text evoke music, it’s all over– my self-control is gone. b) Art, text, and music all draw the book together to make the town itself a character in its own story. It ceases to be a distant place I’ve never visited and becomes a dearly-loved friend: the music becomes elegiac, mournful, almost funereal. We go from being readers to attending a memorial service.

So, I warn you, this is a beautiful, haunting book, but beware of that word: “Haunting.” I read it a few weeks ago, and read it with my Changeling, too. We both loved it passionately.

And it has been sitting on my bedside table since then. Shelving it seemed somehow disrespectful, so it’s been haunting me from that table ever since. I’m hoping that having written this I’ll be allowed to shelve it now.

It’s autumn, now, and autumn is a good time to say goodbye, I always feel. So step out and get this book, and say goodbye to a long-drowned town with me.

And then play some music.

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The Golden Glow

I’ve been missing picture books lately. That’s sort of an odd statement coming from someone with… a lot… of picture books in her house, and who reads said picture books rather a lot. But I haven’t talked about them with anyone for a while. And then it occurred to me that I have a blog for just this reason, and while I love the MG fiction I’ve been writing about, well, I miss writing about picture books! (I am a simple, not-too-bright creature, and this took a while to register.) I happen to have a crack of time available to me right now, so we’re going to talk about a picture book now. And not just any picture book– one which was recently released by Tundra.

I don’t know that I’ve talked about my patriotic pride on here often before: my pure, unadulterated joy whenever I find a new good book from a Canadian publisher. And I do love browsing new books from Canadian publishers: Tundra, Kids Can Press, Nimbus– they hold a special place in my heart. We’ve seen a lot of Canadian books here before (This Is Sadie remains a favourite in my house, also from Tundra), but I never get tired of the kick of joy when I find a really good new book that’s produced by a Canadian publisher.

Well, in this case I owe my finding to my mother, who is one of the world’s great book sleuths. Whenever she or Terri at the Children’s Book Shop recommends a book, I know it will be good. And so we come to today’s finding: The Golden Glow, by Benjamin Flouw.

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See that cover image? That’s Tundra’s excellent taste at work there. The art is exquisite, of course, but it’s the design that grabs me. The golden title sparkles against the glowing colours, the sans serif font (and I’m not generally a fan of sans serif) mirrors the angularity of the art (and I’m not generally a fan of angularity in art), and what you don’t get from an online picture is the sophistication of a matte jacketless book. I love everything about the art and presentation. That’s all Tundra for you.

But then there’s the book itself, and this is a debut picture book originally published in France by La Pastèque (and let’s give a shout-out to the smooth translation by Christelle Morelli and Susan Ouriou). I am going to freely admit that I’m petty, and burn with jealousy over really good first picture books like this one. The art is lush and grabs the eye, the story is substantive without being overwhelming, and the message is gentle and non-didactic. No one should have the right to produce a book like this one right out of the gate! And as author and illustrator? Not fair, Benjamin Flouw, not fair.

The story is simple enough: Fox is a botanist, and he discovers in one of his books mention of a rare and wondrous flower, the golden glow. He goes off in search of it, but when he finally finds it, he has a decision to make (spoiler alert!): bring it back home, or leave the plant in its natural habitat and bring back memories (and drawings) of the original?

My Changeling and I have already enjoyed reading this together several times, and I’ve caught her reading it on her own another few times. She loves the illustrations and the gentleness of the story. She’s going through a stage where she’s scared easily and doesn’t like stories which are too sad or poignant (that’s probably genetics at play; I’m a total wimp myself), so a story like this one, marked by muted character development and a very soft touch on the educational bent, is right up her alley.

As her mother, I liked two elements of the story: One, I love the sort of “beginner’s guide to hiking and botany” side of the book. There are pages of common flower identification, of camping equipment, and a lovely diagram of a flower at the end. Without in any fashion disrupting the story, they give a nice introduction to how hiking and flower-hunting work. Two, I love that there’s an undercurrent of love of the outdoors and, by extension, of protectiveness of the outdoors at work, but without ever breaking the integrity of the book as a whole. In other words, there are two streams of educational elements here, but they’re remarkably unobtrusive and they really allow Fox and the hunt for the golden flower to dominate.

If you’ve read here before, then you know what makes me jump from “liking” to “loving” this book: it’s not just the art, or the educational elements, or the font on the cover. No, it’s the cohesiveness of it all. Kirkus says, “The story is solid enough, but it’s the illustrations that steal the show.” I disagree. The story is solid, yes– I’d argue more than solid. But it’s the integration of art and story and quiet lessons in botany and conservation and, above all, Fox’s heart and soul and passion for beauty, that steal the show. (Sorry, give me a moment to recover: I don’t casually disagree with Kirkus on a daily basis!)

Tundra recommends this for ages 4-8 years, and I think that’s about right. This hits the spot for my five-year-old, with simple enough text for her to read it herself, and art which engrosses her on each page.

So grab a copy, and while you’re at it look out for a map and a good pair of hiking boots, and take your kid for a walk in nature!

Revisiting Some Favourites

I assume that everyone reading here is dying to ask me the question, “But, Deborah, which books stick? You read a lot, buy a lot, but which ones keep coming back?”

And, you know, that’s an excellent question. I’m going to tell you about three books which have endured in the love both of my Changeling and, well, my own heart and mind.

Let’s start with one of my favourite recent publications: Karl, Get Out of the Garden!

Karl Get Out of the Garden

I remember buying Karl. I saw it on the Charlesbridge website and fell in love before I’d even entered my credit card number. It was the beginning of my Charlesbridge obsession (do you remember Will’s Words, too?) and remains a favourite. The thing is, when I bought it, the Changeling was a bit young for it. But I recently pulled it out and offered her the option of a few books for bedtime, and she chose this one.

If I loved it before, I love it even more after reading it aloud. The text and the illustrations merge beautifully together, and there was plenty for my daughter to engage with as I read or before turning the page. Make no mistake: this is a “slow read” not a fast bedtime story. If you’re anxious to get your kid to bed, read something else. If it’s the weekend and it’s raining outside and you need something to absorb everyone for half an hour (theoretically speaking, not like that’s been happening all day every day this summer), definitely pick this up! Let your child explore each page fully, and there is so much to explore. Read slowly and enjoy Anita Sanchez’s prose and how Caroline Stock both respects and enhances it in her luminous watercolours. I can’t say how glad I am that my changeling has grown into this book, and that I get to re-experience it through her eyes.

a-child-of-books

This book is another one (A Child of Books; my original post is here) I got for myself. I was at my local store and the then-manager, Sherryl, grabbed me and put the ARC for this book in my hands. I immediately pre-ordered it through her and waited impatiently for my copy to arrive. It’s such a favourite that I’ve continued to visit it, and, in fact, just bought two copies as gifts last week. The funny thing is that everyone I respect– Sherryl, Terri, and Amy from the book shop, and my mother– all agree with my assessment that it’s a book for adults. I bought it expecting it to be of interest only to me.

The Changeling LOVES IT.

I bought it when she was three and we read it several times together. She really enjoyed it then, but just recently, she’s gotten super excited about it. She examines the illustrations, teasing out the words cleverly manipulated to depict clouds or mountains; she picks out the titles of books from the endpapers and asks about them; and she reads the plain text, too. It’s another slow read, because you really don’t want to ask your beloved tiny bookworm to hurry up and go to bed. It’s fun to read it together slowly and talk about what you think about the pictures or the fairy tales that make the trees in the woods… there’s just such a richness of bookiness to it that the book I thought was only for me is actually for both of us, each to our level. I thought it was an adult’s picture book, but, actually, it turns out to be a “house of invention” for everyone who would enter it. And I strongly suggest that you pay it a visit!

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I’ve written about Eleanor Farjeon several times before: here, here, and here. What I haven’t said anywhere is that the Changeling and I have been reading a few stories from The Little Bookroom over and over, and they’ve been sticking in her mind. I have a feeling that these stories are going to be to her what fairy tales were to me. I have no idea when I first started on longer fiction (stories rather than picture books), but the Changeling, for whatever reason, has taken to these stories in a way she hasn’t taken to fairy tales. These stories have the same kind of depth as fairy tales, but somehow have a more intimate, child-friendly appeal.

Basically, I think that The Little Bookroom is one of the most underrated, unjustly forgotten collections of short fiction out there, and I, Deborah Furchtgott, hereby vow to do as much as I can to spread the knowledge of it throughout the world and to children everywhere. Eleanor Farjeon speaks to children with a voice entirely suited to them, and without in any fashion patronizing or pandering, and hers were the stories I read to my baby when she was lying in her basket and I was bored witless.

And so these are three books which have endured throughout the years in this family. They’re not the only three, of course, but they’re the three that popped to my mind when I sat down to write this post. And they are, all three, books which deserve a wider audience. So, if you’ve been sitting around thinking, “What should I get for that child in my life?” try these! Trust me: you won’t be disappointed.

Fairy Spell

Do you believe in fairies?

Or maybe: “Deborah, do you believe in fairies?”

I’ve always found it a difficult question, personally. The obvious answer is, “No.” I’ve never seen a fairy (and, believe me, as a child I looked!), I’ve never held much conviction in “sensing” supernatural influences like auras or anything like that, and I found, as a young reader, that the wide variety of fairies in various books made it difficult to know what I was looking for when it came to fairy folk. Small and in the flowers? Tall and gracious? Noble? Mischievous? They came in such diversity that it was clear no one really knew what made a fairy.

But I was a lover of fairy tales and I deeply, passionately, madly loved fairies. I just didn’t know where to find them. Or really believe that they, you know, existed. But I wanted them to, and I couldn’t think of a reason why they shouldn’t exist, if only I knew what they were and where they were.

Which brings me to a book which has been sitting on my bedside table for months, waiting for me to have a chance to read it: Fairy Spell: How Two Girls Convinced the World That Fairies Are Real, by Marc Tyler Nobleman, illustrated by Eliza Wheeler.

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First thing to note: I knew of the Cottingley Fairies, of course, because… fairies. As has been established, I knew and loved fairies and read all about them. Including the famous so-called hoax. I didn’t like the story, though, because it all seemed to circle around “how could Sir Arthur Conan Doyle have been taken in by a couple of girls?” Which seemed to me to be the wrong question to ask.

Second thing to note: Despite my reservations about the Cottingley Fairies story, I was at my local children’s book shop and they had this on display and I fell for it. Hard. The cover was so tender and so beautiful, and the title wasn’t calling it a hoax and seemed respectful… and, let’s be honest, this is a pretty, pretty book. I bought it.

(Newsflash: Deborah Falls in Love with Book and Buys It; Nobody Registers Surprise.)

Well, after I finished a chunk of writing, I cleared up the pile of books which have been waiting for me and this one surfaced again. I read it. And I’m totally, completely, 100% in love. This book, and I do not say so lightly, totally understands about fairies, and I’d just say that Marc Nobleman and Eliza Wheeler get it! They don’t talk down to the reader. They don’t pat those two clever girls, Elsie and Frances, at Cottingley on the head. They don’t sneer at Sir Arthur Conan Doyle for believing in fairies. They get it. Add to that that the aesthetic of the book is stunning in its own right and perfectly suited to the gentle yet strong story of the two girls and the women they became, and you have, I believe, a perfect book of its kind.

The question is how Marc Nobleman wove a story which so encapsulated a famous “hoax” without ever calling it a hoax or imputing that the girls were out to make mischief while so brilliant a man as Sir Arthur Conan Doyle was taken in by their machinations.

What Nobleman did which was so very, very simple, and very, very clever, was to listen to the girls and talk about them, rather than talk about the history of photography, Doyle’s peculiarities, or any of the other numerous angles I’ve seen on this story. He never once says that “fairies are real” or, conversely, that “the girls were out to hoax people,” but instead gently recounts the fun that the girls had together at Cottingley and outlines their motivation for photographing the fairies. Gradually, the story of the fairies grows, outgrowing the girls’ probable intentions, and when it reaches the ears of Doyle, it explodes. The girls stand by their story (in part, he suggests, so as not to embarrass Doyle), and only later in life, after the death of Doyle, do they explain the full story… almost. In fact, it seems that the younger of the girls, Frances, never really made it clear whether or not she maybe did believe in fairies… just a little.

I love how Nobleman treats Elsie and Frances with perfect respect, never imputing any malice or even mischievous intent to their actions. I love how the art mirrors and amplifies this respect. I love how he never looks down his nose at Doyle. I love how he builds a new story out of the old one, a story which never denigrates belief in fairies, or the desire to believe in fairies, and which even demonstrates a kind of respect for that desire. Altogether, I think this is a beautiful account of the creativity and brilliance of two little girls enjoying a summer in a lovely corner of the world– and who enjoyed playing with the fairies, whether the fairies knew it or not.

A River

A River by Marc Martin came out in March 2017, and when it came out I snagged it at first sight from The Children’s Book Shop. At the time, though, I thought the Changeling was a bit young to appreciate it, and it slept nicely on a shelf until I hit a cracking point this week and needed a gentle, beautiful book to help me out a bit. A River did that beautifully, and today, after yet another day of terrible news (please consider first reading this and then donating here) I’m going to tell you about it in case it helps you, too.

A River.jpg

I encourage you to come to this book as you would to a work of art: the words are muted, gentle guides, but the true story comes through the art. A small child sits at the window, looking out to the river. The river stretches off to the distance, and the child pictures a little silver boat on the river. The boat carries the child, exploring wherever the river takes them. Off they go by cities, through jungles, over a stormy sea, and, finally, back home. The story is soft without being flaccid, and it has a core of great strength– the river itself– carrying the reader from beginning to end.

As I said, the art does the brunt of the storytelling, and it does so largely by atmosphere. Everything, from the cover and the endpapers to the story pages themselves, is marked by undulating curves and suffused with a variety of watery colours (unsurprisingly, the art is done in watercolours as well as gouache, pencils, and digital collage). As for the story pages, the opening of the child’s room is full of lush but muted, almost vintage, detail. Toys are scattered, a cat stands behind the child-artist’s chair, and various plants and decorations mark the walls and bookshelves. Then, as you turn the pages, these details come back… the toy car beside the bookcase anticipates the traffic in the city, the horse returns in a farm scene, the toucan in the jungle. Not all details map perfectly to full-page spreads as the river coils on, but there’s plenty to engage the eye– and the eye is busily engaged because the further the river flows from the city, the more luscious the landscape.

This is what I mean when I say to approach the book as artwork: first, because the art is so lush and so dynamic that it really does do the brunt of the storytelling; second, because it’s just so beautiful that turning the pages without being distracted by many words elicits both emotional and rational thought: “Vivid–deep–dangerous” might be the sequence of instinctive responses as you go from jungle during the day to jungle at night to sailing through the mangroves. And that tells you something, emotionally as well as intellectually.

As for me? My chief response, oddly, was peace. Sure, there’s a lot going on beyond peacefulness: the animals in the jungle are surely dangerous, and the stormy seas certainly aren’t peaceful, but relinquishing rational, analytical thought for a moment and allowing my mind just to pulse with responses to beautiful art– that’s peaceful, just like the quiet thoughtfulness of a museum (I wonder: did Delacroix paint a single peaceful painting in his life?), or that moment in between the end of a concert (be it Bach or Berlioz) and the beginning of the applause.

This is, simply put, a beautiful book, an art book. If children had coffee tables, this would be a good coffee table book for children. And if you need a quiet space around your child’s bedtime, this is the book I recommend. Take your time flipping the pages, and let your child prattle on about what they see; after all, they’re the ones voyaging on a little silver boat along the river with the child telling the story… and then coming back to go to bed. Sweet dreams.

Shelter Giveaway over!

Dear Readers,

The giveaway is over, and I’ve emailed the winner, so if you donated you should check your email!

I want to thank you for everything: for caring about this pressing issue, for your donations, for your notes and your thoughts, for your willingness to stand up against what is wrong and for embracing what is positive and helpful, and, above all, for letting me do my bit to help out. I wish I could send books to each and every one of you!

Thank you all, and check back later for some more beautiful books. I have one beside my laptop right now which I think you’ll all love.

Charity Giveaway Reminder

Hi, folks,

Your emails and entries into the Shelter Charity Giveaway have been so heartening: every little note has been meaningful to me, because each of you is the power in this giveaway.

Giving someone a book doesn’t help the children and families at the border; your donations to RAICES or the ACLU absolutely do.

You can still enter until 12 noon on Friday, July 20 by donating and then emailing me at deborah@childrensbookroom.com. And please do share this information with your family and friends: word of mouth is the best way to reach people, and I’ve gotten some lovely notes from friends of readers of the blog saying that this was the push they needed to donate.

Thank you again and again for your generosity, your donations, and for spreading good in a world which sorely needs it.

Deborah

Shelter Charity Giveaway

Dear Readers, it’s time for another giveaway here at the Children’s Bookroom! In the past, we’ve had giveaways either just because I liked a given book, or because I was given one for free, or in response to a troubling event– but I haven’t done a charity giveaway, and I think the time has come for that.

The impetus for this giveaway is that in the face of separating children from their families, losing track of them, and detaining parents and families in detention centres, I think (as ever) the response is to read books with our children which teach us to be kind, welcome the stranger, and share what you have. Let’s make sure the next generation is kinder, warmer, and more welcoming than we are. So I will be asking you to give to a charity which is standing up for sheltering the stranger, and, in return, I will give one of you a book which promotes the values of kindness, compassion, and welcoming those in need.

Which book called to me over this matter? Shelter, by Céline Claire, illustrated by Qin Leng, and one of my favourite books from 2017 (well done, Kids Can Press!).

Shelter

What are the rules? They are very simple:

1) Anyone can participate, no matter where they live; I will pay shipping worldwide. As in other giveaways, I hold that books know no boundaries!
2) To enter, the participant would simply make a donation in any amount to RAICES or the ACLU and email me that they have done so at deborah@childrensbookroom.com. I do not need to see your receipt: I trust you not to scam a giveaway about generosity and kindness.
3) This must be done between when I post the rules and Friday, July 20 at 12 noon EST.
At 12 noon July 20, I will use a random number generator to choose the winner and will email the winner to get their address. Donating more or less won’t affect the process; I know everyone will donate what they can, and that’s wonderful.
Questions? Email me at deborah@childrensbookroom.com. I know that you will share this widely and encourage your friends and family to donate as well. Let’s turn a grim situation into light and kindness to come.

The Incorrigible Children of Ashton Place

Hear and attend and listen, oh my Best Belov– whoops! Sorry, folks, just been reading lots of Just So Stories with the Changeling! (We’ll talk about them another day– I’d forgotten both how wonderful they are, and how much of Kipling’s racism permeates even these pretty innocent stories.)

But today we’re going to talk (relatively briefly) about another set of books: do you remember my first Saturdays post? In it I mention Maryrose Wood’s series The Incorrigible Children of Ashton Place? We began, way back then, with The Mysterious Howling, in which we’re introduced to the Incorrigibles, their governess (Penelope Lumley), and their home at Ashton Place. I noted then that they both played with the conventions of the Gothic and of Victoriana, but without taking themselves seriously. There was, for example, never any doubt of a happy ending.

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I admit freely that I had concerns about this final volume. I was worried that the mysteries had mounted up so high that the grand finale would be completely impossible to pull off without losing the lighthearted tone of the first five books: would it get sad and scary and– horror of horrors!– serious? In hindsight, I have no idea why I worried. Maryrose Wood had kept a consistent tone running through five novels even while the stakes got higher and higher; why would her skillful lightheartedness suddenly fall apart in the last book?

I won’t spoil the read for you by detailing every example of her beautiful balancing act between humour and an intense plot, but here are a few points to watch out for: Penelope’s harrowing escape from Plinkst, Russia (don’t feel stupid if you’ve never heard of Plinkst– it’s delightfully fictional, thank God); a ride against time in a balloon with an old friend; and a final, brilliantly dramatic seance in which– well, I can’t tell you that, can I?

But what you really want to know, I’m sure, is this: Now that I’ve finished the series, what do I think of it as a whole? And should you, new to the series, start it now that you can finish it? Is it worth reading the whole shebang?

My thoughts on the series as a whole are these: As I said above, it’s beautifully balanced between maintaining an intense plot while at the same time never falling into grim, gritty, noir drama. You will never stop smiling as you read. You will never feel worried that the next page will plunge you into melancholy.

But I worry that you think this means that the books are empty, frivolous tales; they aren’t. You consistently think, as you read, about questions of good parenting, loyalty, friendship, child-rearing, and, generally, good behaviour. You think about what it takes to be a good person, and why it is that we so love Penelope and the Incorrigibles. They just make you laugh as you think.

The only situation the series avoids is testing your thoughts by presenting the alternative: there is no use of horror to make us appreciate the gentleness on the other side. Drama, yes. Theatrics, definitely. Just no horror or darkness.

In point of fact, the closest adult equivalent might be P. G. Wodehouse: there’s the same sense of eyes twinkling behind the text, just waiting for the next page to bring you to laughter, while at the same time holding you in suspense as you await the next plot twist. The difference is that whereas P. G. Wodehouse generally hangs out with the wealthy and (affectionately) teases their excesses, Maryrose Woods, despite the wealth of the Ashtons, focuses her affections on the hard-working Penelope and her precariously situated students, the Incorrigibles. We are delighted with their ingenuity and how they maintain life and security as the world teeters around them.

So, if you’re looking for ease from these tempestuous times, I can strongly recommend these books. They’re wholesome, heartening, and funny. They’ll give you respite from harsh reality, but never, ever lose track of what’s really important in life: love and respect for one another.

And let me tell you this, too: if your reading time is limited, these are fantastic, absolutely brilliant. You can read each of these in a few hours, and while there’s a certain amount of suspense, you really can space them out without biting your nails to find out “what happens next?” Altogether, I cannot think of better summer reading. So go forth and read!

House of Dreams

I am not usually stunned to silence by, well, much of anything. I’m more likely to chatter on until I’ve sorted out my questions to my own satisfaction– in fact, I will actively seek out solitude just to preserve the rest of the world from my chattering, or write in a journal to get it all out without needing to bore my acquaintances by my navel-gazing. But being stunned to absolute silence? That doesn’t happen.

And then I read House of Dreams by Liz Rosenberg, illustrated by Julie Morstad (God, I love her).

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Here’s the thing: You may have noticed I haven’t been around here much. Partly that’s because I haven’t been reading a huge amount, mostly it’s because I’ve been in the throes of a spiral of anxiety with an added dose of depression over my dissertation. Terrible idea, that: it prevents me from working, and also prevents me from seeking out the tools I use to keep myself working (writing here, writing in my journal, knitting or spinning– anything, really). I strongly recommend not ending up in a depressive spiral if you can at all avoid it.

But then I needed to pick up some birthday presents for the Changeling’s school friends, so I went to my beloved Children’s Book Shop, and one of the books they had on display was House of Dreams. I was in a black fog from my anxiety, and nearly cried as I bought it (that’s not very indicative of anything, actually– I cried over the laundry, too). I felt it was a betrayal of my dissertation to even touch another book, even though I only planned to read it on Saturdays, as usual– but I knew it would be good to have some heart-to-heart time with an author I loved as much as L. M. Montgomery.

I was right– right and wrong, but mostly right.

Here’s the thing: I went into this book knowing a couple of things about L. M. Montgomery (Maud). I knew I loved her writing. I’m a Maritimer by birth, and I grew up with Anne, to a lesser degree with Emily (Emily of New Moon), and oh so very close with Jane of Jane of Lantern Hill and Valancy from The Blue Castle. Darling friends of mine, all of those bright, spunky, flawed, growing and learning young women! They were there for me all my life. And I felt they represented various aspects of Maud herself.

But I also knew that she lived with terrible misfortunes in her life, and coped with bad depression until her death.

I didn’t know just how bad it was.

My initial reaction at the end of the book was a kind of pang of guilt for not having been there: an “I didn’t know” feeling. “I didn’t know Maud committed suicide. I didn’t know the half of her family difficulties, especially with her eldest son, Chester. I didn’t know about how bad her medical situation was.”

I also didn’t know how damned strong she was: “I didn’t know how well she stood up to her unscrupulous publisher. I didn’t know how prolific she was during very dark times. I didn’t know she survived a miscarriage and a still-birth with a husband who wasn’t really there for her.”

On a practical note, then, I can tell you that if you’re a fan of her works, House of Dreams will tell you plenty that you probably didn’t already know about Maud, and it does so with clear, engaging, narrative prose. It’s a great read.

But, as I said above, it stunned me, initially, to silence. It took me a while to write to my mother about it– and if you know anything about me and my mother and the scope of our correspondence, that alone will stun you.

Here’s the thing: if you love Maud, if you feel yourself reflected in her work, and if you are the sort of person who always thought that Valancy in The Blue Castle was her way of talking about mental illness (seriously, Valancy’s not suffering from heart attacks– she’s struggling with anxiety attacks and depression, I’m dead sure of it)– if you feel intimately connected to Maud’s books and have always felt that Jane of Lantern Hill was written about your life… basically, if you’re like me: it will take you a while to process what you’ve read.

That said: do yourself a favour and read this book. You’ll get to know Maud better than you ever did before, and I guarantee that although it will cost you pangs of grief as she struggles, you will also feel pride in how she dealt with adversity, in her strength, and in her ability to continue to be a rock for others to lean on even as life is dealing her blow after blow.

You will mourn the lack of support out there for her, and you will feel gratitude that medication and therapy have come so far as they have these days. You will feel torn to bits as you read about how she self-medicated to the point that it killed her. You will wish to God that you could have been there to offer to sit with her over a cup of tea and urge her to talk openly about her struggles.

And, ultimately, you will wish you could have said these words: “What you wrote meant something to me. Thank you for your writing. You, your life, and your happiness matter to me.”

Of the books I’ve read recently, this has probably touched me more deeply than most. I am so glad I read it. It got me to write here, and I bet you anything it gets me to write more than I delete on my dissertation this week, which would be a triumph of no ordinary proportions.

Reading notes: I read this over the past two Saturdays. Grand total, I bet it took me no more than six hours to read. It took me a lot longer to process, obviously.

So, please read this book, and then come back and tell me what you think!