A Writer's Random Thoughts: Reviews and More

In the past 48 hours, my new novel CRUMBLE (the 2013 San Francisco Book Festival Winner for YA Fiction) has received a couple of negative reviews. And I anticipate based on the subject matter that it will receive many more. As a writer, I welcome all reviews–positive and negative. The contrast between the two sparks debate, and debate leads to interest. However, I have a feeling these negative reviews are from readers who were somehow misled into believing that CRUMBLE was a young adult romance novel–a feel-good, heartwarming, young love story about an interracial couple. I’m sorry to say, this is not CRUMBLE. And I apologize to anyone who believed this to be the case before they read the book.

If you are a reader of primarily romance and/or fantasy fiction, I’m asking you not to read CRUMBLE. Or, if you’re going to read it, know ahead of time what to expect. Brace yourself and try to keep an open mind. I don’t write romance. I don’t write fantasy fiction. My writing is dark, often harsh. I focus on those issues that make most of us…maybe all of us…uncomfortable. And in the case of CRUMBLE, there is not a happy ending. Unfortunately, it ends the way a story like this would end, in real life. I know the purpose of reading is to escape “real” life, and I appreciate that, and I appreciate authors who provide that. In my first novel, although as dark (if not more-so than CRUMBLE), I decided to go with a happy ending, and, ironically enough, was criticized for it by a number of readers. “The ending was just too difficult to believe.” “That wouldn’t happen in real life.” I can only imagine what people would’ve said if I’d ended it with a tragedy…

I write about the sometimes harsh reality of life because we live in a rough world, void of vampires and werewolves and witches. Our real world might not be so vile if it was filled with vampires and werewolves and witches. Humans can be much more vicious than these docile creatures. As a mother, I don’t shield my teenage son from the ugliness in our world, but do I teach him to embrace the beautiful moments when they appear, and even though life can be rough at times, those beautiful moments are plenty. I could never justify letting him traverse the choppy waters of high school and beyond without fully preparing him for what he might encounter. To me, that’s dangerous. And I realize that more when I discover there are people out there who don’t believe racism still exists in our society, that somehow it just washed away with the signing of the Emancipation Proclamation. I mean, we elected a black president, how can racism still exist?

In a 2012 article posted on the Southern Poverty Law Society website, it was said that the number of hate groups in 2011 reached a total of 1,018. According to the article, “The truly stunning growth came in the antigovernment ‘Patriot’ movement — conspiracy-minded groups that see the federal government as their primary enemy…By the turn of the millennium, the Patriot movement was reduced to fewer than 150 relatively inactive groups. But the movement came roaring back beginning in late 2008, just as the economy went south with the subprime collapse and, more importantly, as Barack Obama appeared on the political scene as the Democratic nominee and, ultimately, the president-elect…The swelling of the Patriot movement since that time has been astounding. From 149 groups in 2008, the number of Patriot organizations skyrocketed to 512 in 2009, shot up again in 2010 to 824, and then, last year jumped to 1,274. That works out to a staggering 755% growth in the three years ending December 31, 2011. Last year’s total was more than 400 groups higher than the prior all-time high, in 1996.”

I hate to be the bearer of bad news, but racism is very much alive today, and I’m tired of it. I’m tired of bigotry and intolerance, of people being robbed of their right to marry the people they love, of women being harassed and mistreated because they chose to have an abortion, of parents blaming the system rather than themselves for the bullying behavior of their own kids, and of parents who abuse and neglect their children (and, yes, there are thousands of children who die each year at the hands of the very humans who brought them into this world). I’m sick and tired of it, so I choose to write about it.

I think I write well, but I certainly don’t put myself on a pedestal. I simply write what’s in my heart by writing about what scares me most about being a mother. What I ask of the people who choose to read CRUMBLE is that you prepare yourself for the painful truth that lies within its pages. And judge the book based on my ability as a writer, not on your own personal disappointment of not getting what you expected.

I just learned that my newest novel, CRUMBLE, is a San Francisco Book Festival Winner for YA Fiction. I’m still sitting here in shock. Speechless. Breathless. I’ve been writing for 20 years. Okay, maybe more if you consider my first official award came in third grade when I won an all-school writing contest. It’s what I love to do. I don’t know why the creative writing bug fell on me, but it did, and I’ve been striving ever since to fulfill that dream of being a writer. Not just a writer, but a REAL writer. My debut novel, I AM LUCKY BIRD, was a fiction finalist for the Book of the Year Award from ForeWord Reviews. I was elated then. Also speechless and breathless. But I was a finalist. Now, for the first time since third grade, I’m a winner!

I hope for many more of these in the future as I continue UP this rather rocky road of stops-and-go’s with long days of hair-pulling and teeth-nashing. And I thank all of my wonderful readers out there who believe in me. I owe every single word–every single letter, rather–to all of you.

Yesterday, I attended the funeral of Richard Matthews, my former brother-in-law and a wonderful uncle to my son, Jacob. I hadn’t seen Richard in some time—my ex-husband and I separated in 2007, and although he and I have remained friends and I continue to consider his family mine, Richard and Marian moved to Northern California in 2008. But I remember meeting Richard for the first time in 1998 and being intimidated by him—tall and thick with graying hair and beard, dark eyes. He was a sheriff, a drug enforcement agent, a Vietnam War Veteran. He was a bear. And then he smiled, and my heart melted.

Richard died peacefully on December 29^th at the Sacramento VA Medical Center in Mather, California of complications from Diabetes. There is much speculation about his illness. He was exposed to Agent Orange during his years in Vietnam. For four months, he fought against the infection that was attacking his body. There were a number of times between early September and December 29^th when he “might not make it through the night”. But he did. Again and again. He was tough. During yesterday’s service, I discovered just how tough he was.

From the service program, I learned that “Richard was an infantry ‘boots on the ground’ squad leader in the republic of Viet Nam, 101^st Airborne Division, 187^th Infantry Battalion Battle Lion ‘Rakasans’. He continued to support the military for 20 additional years as a Sergeant for the California Army National Guard, 40^th Infantry Division. He was awarded two army commendation medals and three meritorious service medals. Additionally, he spent 31 years with the Tulare County Sheriff’s Department. He held numerous ranks and positions within the Department, including Deputy, Sergeant and Lieutenant. He was the SWAT, Narcotics, Jail, Night Watch and Search and Rescue Commander, as well as Volunteer Coordinator for the Posse, the Aero Squadron and other volunteer services. Richard led and participated in a decade of medical missions with the Episcopal Church to Honduras where he served and protected villagers who became his friends. During the last chapter of his life he became very active in the Episcopal Church, the Salvation Army and the Solano County Search and Rescue.”

Friends and family at the service spoke of Richard’s bravery, his compassion, his dedication, his courage. But it was in the letter written by his wife, Marian, and read by a friend of Richard’s where I realized just how brave, just how compassionate and dedicated, and just how courageous Richard was. The first part of the letter was a message to Richard from Marian (of how much she misses him, how many tears she has cried and will continue to cry, and how difficult it is to wake up without him and to come home at night and not have him there); the second part was Richard’s last words to his family and friends, to his daughter and three little granddaughters (in Richard’s words to Starly, Bella and Mazzy, “You’ve only just started to know me, and I’m sorry we won’t be able to know each other more.”); and the final part was a message from Richard to all of us on how to live our lives. It was intense. In the letter, Richard revealed his appreciation to the nurses and doctors at the VA hospital where he spent a majority of his last few months. It was at this hospital where he felt—for the first time since returning from Vietnam—thanked for his services. He became very attached to one particular doctor and a nurse, so much so that he told the doctor about an incident in Vietnam he’d never before shared with anyone. In one horrific day, he lost nearly his entire brigade, including a commander who he’d become very close to and who he looked up to as a mentor. The commander died in Richard’s arms. Richard told the doctor, just prior to a procedure where tubes were to be implanted in Richard’s neck to administer Dialysis, that he had to keep living, that he owed it to the men who died for him on that day. The doctor told Richard that he’d done his service, and that those men would not want Richard to keep living the way he was. He told Richard those men were now waiting for him to rejoin them. In addition, there was a nurse who tended to Richard, helping him with all of the things he could no longer do for himself. Richard kept apologizing to him. The nurse told Richard to stop apologizing, that if it weren’t for Richard, he wouldn’t have a job. He would not have the life he had. He told Richard he was going to tend to him and stay with him until his days were done. And he did.

In attendance at Richard’s funeral were members of the Tulare County Sheriff’s Department, as well as members of the California Army National Guard and other military branches, and members of the California Rescue Dog Association (Marian’s dog, Barbarosa, is a member, and he was at the service as well). There was also a group from Honduras and Guatemala. At the end of the church service, there was a processional led by the Tulare County Sheriff’s Department—a full police escort with streets blocked by sheriff vehicles. At the cemetery, bagpipes played and military personnel stood watch. There was a gun salute and a lone trumpeter far off in the distance who played TAPS. As flags were given to Marian and Richard’s medals were given to his daughter, the sun popped out from behind a cluster of clouds. It took my breath away.

I was reminded of the importance of family and friends, and the importance of saying “I love you” whenever and however we can to one another. Life is just too short and too precious to let days and days go by without saying those words. Richard’s advice to us (Marian sat by his side for days writing down what he said, word for word) was that we should live each day to the fullest, and if we want to do something, do it. And if a day should pass when we don’t do what we want, wake up the next day and try again. And again and again.

On my drive to Visalia yesterday morning, I noticed a hawk circling above me. It first appeared near Pyramid Lake, but then seemed to follow me for another 20+ miles until I reached the bottom of the Grapevine, at which time I realized it had remained in the mountains above Tejon Ranch. I’d like to think that was Richard up there, watching over me as I tackled Interstate 5 to attend the dedication to his life, a life he lived in honor of the men who died in Vietnam by his side and in his arms. It was a beautiful tribute to a man who served his country and lived to help those most in need.

Goodbye, Richard Matthews. May you rest in peace, sweet man.

Richard and Marian

Each time I’m asked the question regarding how I came up with the idea for I Am Lucky Bird, I have to go back some years and try and remember. And each time I do, I discover another moment that assisted me in the development of the book.

One of the major themes in I Am Lucky Bird is that everything that happens in life happens for a reason. Marian even tells Lucky this not long after AnnMarie’s disappearance. In my own life, I firmly believe this to be true. There are no accidents.

I’ve had a fascination about this concept for years. I heard a story once about an 11-year-old boy who left his house and jumped on his bike to go down the street to play with a friend. As he veered around the corner, he was hit head-on by a truck and was killed instantly. When his mother was later interviewed, she said she’d called out to the boy just before he ran out the door, telling him to come back and grab his coat off the chair in the kitchen. He responded saying he didn’t need it. If he’d gone back to get his jacket, he would have saved himself a minute, or even just a few seconds, but maybe enough time to allow the truck to pass that deadly spot.

I remember thinking to myself, if he’d only just gone back to get his jacket, he’d be alive today. His parents wouldn’t be grieving over the loss of their son. It’s these kinds of stories that make me believe there are no accidents in life. There’s not always an explanation. And in the case of the boy in the story above, the things that happen to us are not always good. In fact, most of the time, it seems the things that happen to us are painful and tragic and dark. But for me, by believing we have no control of our destiny—that we can only tweak it a bit in the choices we make about how we want to live our lives—I can draw some strength in knowing there’s a purpose to everything, even though we may never know what that purpose is.

For Lucky Bird, Marian’s words ring strong and true until the very end. Why did she stop to pet the mares on the other side of the fence? Why did she break her bedroom window when she did? And most notably, why did she choose to stand at the edge of the Clark Fork River on the very night Jason Colare was taking his dog for a walk?

As a writer, I have complete control of what happens to my characters. I’m the one who gets to choose whether the boy returns to the kitchen to retrieve his jacket, and it’s a wonderful feeling. But in the real world, life is a set of dominoes, and I believe the path in which those dominoes fall is already predetermined. We just have to have faith in that path, even when one of our dominoes tumbles off the edge of the table.

Check out the post on Lizzy’s Dark Fiction

I’ve been asked a number of times over the past year where the idea for I Am Lucky Bird came from. Did I endure the kinds of trauma Lucky Bird endures throughout the story? If so, did I write the book to help me come to terms with my own past? Or, do I know someone like Lucky Bird, and did I write the book for her?

The answer to both possibilities is no. Quite the opposite of Lucky, I had an amazing childhood with two loving parents and three wonderful brothers. To this day, we’re all very close. I haven’t endured anything like Lucky Bird does, nor do I know anyone who personally has.

I can’t remember when I started writing short stories, but my mom has an entire collection of them in a hope chest at her house in Port Ludlow, Washington. On a visit there last year, I pulled the stories out and read through them, and I discovered a common theme. Like Lucky Bird, the characters in all of these stories were struggling—a sister trying to come to terms with the suicide of a younger brother, a daughter returning home to make amends with a father who’d abandoned her at a young age, a mother in search of a son who was kidnapped at the age of five. And I wondered, why does a woman like me—a woman who’s had more ups than downs, who’s never suffered a severe loss (my biggest obstacle in life so far is an amicable divorce), who’s never been abused or mistreated—choose to write about hardship and pain and loss? Why are these the stories I write?

I think Lucky Bird—like the sister, the daughter, the mother—came to me because I’ve never experienced her anguish. I have no “real” connection to any of her suffering. Instead, I have a deep-seeded desire to help someone like her. I imagined what it would be like to be Lucky Bird. How would I want my story to end, and what would I need to do to get there? I did the same with the sister, the daughter, and the mother in my short stories, and although I had nothing in common with any of these characters, I wanted to help them. I wanted to guide them through their suffering and lead them down a better path, much as I did Lucky Bird.

I guess the idea for I Am Lucky Bird came from a need to explore the unknown and connect with unfamiliar characters. As evident in past (and future) work, it’s my reason for writing. Somehow, if I can understand the “unknown” and “unfamiliar”, I can, in my own personal way, fulfill that deep-seeded desire to help someone survive the unthinkable.

See the blog post on Nette’s Bookshelf Reviews!

Being a writer has many ups and downs. Writing can be time-consuming and often frustrating on some days, and on others, the pages flow quickly and freely without much effort at all. There are occasional breakthrough moments that leave me elated, but there are other moments when I want to drop my computer off my third floor balcony and watch it shatter on the sidewalk below. It’s the beauty and anguish of being a writer, I suppose. For me,  a particularly difficult aspect of writing is having to dig deep within myself to find the strength to be brave enough to connect with the characters I don’t want to connect with—the bad guys.

Tom Cressfield in I Am Lucky Bird is one of them. To say he’s a monster is being nice. And having to bring him into the novel—a difficult task from the get-go as he makes his initial appearance in the first few pages—was like watching the rape of Sarah Tobias played by Jodie Foster in The Accused. I didn’t know what to expect when I saw the film the first time, but when I watched it again, my stomach clenched into a knot and my hands started shaking a good ten minutes before the dreaded scene. I had a similar reaction when I had to bring Tom Cressfield into Lucky Bird’s life. I created him though.

I knew what he was and what he was going to do (and what he’d already done). And as I despised him, I had to give him life. I had to swallow my fear and unravel the twisted rope in my gut and put this animal in the pages of my book to torment the young Lucky Bird. I created this man in my head—a compilation of the many bad guys I’d read about in books or I’d watched in films—and now he was alive and breathing. I made him walk and talk. I made him do those horrible things. There were moments when I questioned my own sanity. Was it possible I did have some deep, dark traumatic moment in my past that I was repressing?

It was days, maybe weeks later, when I realized it wasn’t so spectacular that I created this character. Writers aren’t brave for creating villains. They’re brave for finding a way to connect with them, for finding a way to make their readers empathize with them. I tried digging deep within myself to find the strength to be brave enough to connect with Tom Cressfield, but I fear I fell short.

I had to find a way to make my readers not hate him, even though he disgusted me. It’s an incredibly tricky task for writers, and there are many out there who can do it, and do it well. Unfortunately, I don’t think I succeeded because each time I think of a new reader about to meet Tom Cressfield, , I get that same sickly feeling in my stomach, like I’m about to watch that horrible scene in The Accused.

See the guest post on Bending the Spine!

Behind the Scenes of the Book Trailer: Letting Go of Lucky Bird

The I Am Lucky Bird book trailer shoot took two full days. Melissa and Kyle Bring of Bring Media (the production team hired to make the trailer) read the book, made notes about how to best portray the novel in 90 seconds, and sent out a casting call for the three characters who would be in the trailer—Marian, Tom and Lucky. Headshots were sent to me for review, and for the first time, I had to truly step outside of myself  as the writer and interpret the book as the reader. And it wasn’t easy. I had to set aside what I thought Marian and Tom and Lucky might look like, and trust Melissa and Kyle. I had to listen to how they perceived these three integral characters, and I had to bite my tongue when it came to discussing the who, what, where, when and how. Yes, the book is mine. But the book trailer is theirs. Although I’m sure it’s nothing in comparison, I think I got my first taste of what it would be like to be an author who’s novel was picked up by a studio wanting to put life into the pages by throwing it onto a big screen.

What I thought would be a terrifying and frustrating process was instead magical when I had a few minutes to spend with Olivia Homan who played Lucky. I created Lucky in my head and put her in the pages of the book—she was me, I was her, I gave her a voice, and I followed through with that voice until the very end. Watching Olivia, I almost felt as though I was giving Lucky’s life to her, putting my baby in Olivia’s hands and asking this 15-year-old to BE Lucky Bird, my young protagonist who’s life becomes a rocky, turbulent roller coaster in the years following her mother’s disappearance. I felt suddenly guilty, on two levels: One, for giving Lucky away. And, two, for asking Olivia to step into Lucky’s horrifying nightmare. But Olivia didn’t hesitate at the opportunity. She’d read the book as well, and she was excited to be able to transform herself into this character, and although there was no dialogue, Olivia’s performance was stellar. She WAS Lucky Bird—the eyes, the mouth, the look of absolute fear in her face while tucked beneath her bed when Tom Cressfield walks through her bedroom door. I felt what she felt, and it was just like I was writing Lucky all over again.

I don’t think it’s unusual for writers to have reservations about passing their characters on to others, but isn’t that what we do anyway? Present our work to the public for their enjoyment, for their chance to interpret our words the way they want to interpret them? We might have a vision in our head of who our characters are and what stories they want to tell and how, but every reader is different. And if my readers, after watching the book trailer, imagine Lucky and Tom and Marian as the three actors who portrayed them, I’m fine with that. They did an incredible job. I might have created these three in my head and put them on paper, but Olivia, Carol and Bill gave them life.

See the post on Buried in Books!

Girlchild: A Novel by Tupelo Hassman

My rating: 5 of 5 stars

Rory Dawn Hendrix is a trailer park girl—raised in the Calle del las Flores, a cluster of mobile homes on a plot of dust outside Reno, Nevada. Her mother calls her girlchild. And the novel is written as a series of mini-chapters, word problems, social workers’ reports, newspaper clippings, and more. These snippets introduce readers to a sad, hopeless, dirty world, but the only world Rory Dawn knows. And even though it’s sad and hopeless and dirty, Tupelo Hassman turns it into something beautiful by the mere talent of her writing.
Rory’s mother and grandmother both had their children when they were teenagers. They’re high school dropouts, welfare moms, alcoholics, gamblers, smokers. And all of the women in Rory’s family were, for a time, residents of the Calle where violence and sexual abuse are normal. Rory is surrounded by all of the disadvantages of Calle life, but her grandmother, Shirley Rose, has high hopes that Rory will be the one Hendrix female to get out. She says in a letter to Rory, “Someone’s got to make it and it has to be you.”
Rory is a smart girl, but being a gifted speller and star student doesn’t protect her from the harsh reality of life on the Calle where she is sexually assaulted by the “Hardware Man” in the bathroom of his shop while her mother works the night shift or wanders drunk from bar to bar. Rory finds some solace in the pages of the Girl Scout Handbook she repeatedly checks out from the library. The handbook contains words like honor, duty and try. According to Rory, “nothing else makes promises like that around here, promises with these words burning inside them…”
Girlchild is harrowing, but Tupelo’s ability to present the ugly beautifully softens the blow a bit and makes the unbearable, bearable. We see the world through Rory’s eyes, but in her childlike nature, the darkest elements are kept secret (i.e. blackening out the portions of the novel that take place in the Hardware Man’s bathroom). In this way, Tupelo allows her readers to use their own imagination about what takes place there, making it easier to digest the hideousness of it.
However readers interpret the novel, the underlying theme is that blood is thick, and no matter how badly someone might want to escape his/her world, the bond of family is often too strong to walk away from, even when the members of that family are often the ones who let you down.
Tupelo’s gift of descriptive language is mesmerizing for any writer, and I found her choice of writing Girlchild in vignettes admirable. Although the plot seemed a bit weak, this was offset by Tupelo’s natural voice, and I loved Rory as much as any character. I wanted to see her break free, and I cheered for her. As a writer, I hope I am able to do the same with my characters.



View all my reviews

Earlier this week, I made a comment on a friend’s Facebook page in response to a photograph she posted of a hunter sitting in front of a dead wolf. I declared myself an animal rights activist, and stated my concern and lack of understanding behind Montana politicians allowing the shooting of wolves.

In response to my comment, a Facebook friend of the girl who posted the dead wolf picture said this:

“I agree with Fleur! We shouldn’t shoot these poor animals… We should be rounding up all the cunt animal rights activists & shootin all them for releasing a non native animal into Montana’s wild lands that’s wiping out deer & elk populations so there’s nothing left to shoot for food! So there’s your bullshit, stupid ass women!”

I expressed my opinion, and in return, I was verbally attacked (and not just me, but ALL women). Of course, I’m not going to sit back and do nothing, so I responded with this:

“Gee, Heather, quite a “friend” you have here. Love the use of the word ‘cunt’ in describing us animal rights activists. Oh, and ‘stupid ass women’. You’re a peach, Theron. I feel sorry for any female who’s a part of your life. Good luck with that.”

And so, I moved on, until the brother of this guy decided to also pitch in with his own attack:

“That is a Canadian Timber Wolf! Get your facts right ladies!! Oh wait you don’t live there do you?! They are NOT Native to Montana, but asshole scientists and activists introduced them claiming that they would do the ecosystem good. That looks like a 185 lb wolf and is the great white shark on land. Killing machines. Their numbers have exploded beyond the foresight of these ‘smart’ people, and have grown out of hand. They attack not only healthy wild game, but kill ranchers cattle, horses, etc. Remember the stories of the big bad wolf? THIS is one of them! That fucker could kill a man, much less an animal rights activist woman!! Go ahead Fleur, take your ass out in the grass and get to know that animal, and don’t be surprised if it rips your throat out and drinks your blood like its spraying from a water fountain. Yes that is probably best for everyone, go out and be ‘Active’ with that animal, let us know how that goes for you! =D”

After I let the anger subside a bit, I responded:

“No, Joe, I don’t live in Montana anymore, but I grew up there. And I’m never one to pretend I’m right when I’m wrong. After this little debacle last night, I did some research, and I now understand what’s going on, and although I still do not agree with the way this mess is being handled, I have an open-mind and understand the plight of the ranchers and hunters. You were doing a great job of making your argument–thoughtful and intelligent–until the last part where you suggested I “take my ass out in the grass and get to know the animal”. I’m sure, like your women-hating brother, you’d like to watch that animal “rip out my throat and drink my blood”, but I don’t give a shit. You both obviously have some serious anger issues, and before you make such suggestions (or in the case of your brother, insult ALL women by calling me a ‘cunt’ and a ‘stupid-ass woman’), you might want to consider what you’re writing and why. And although I could give a shit less if he gives me the honor, I do feel your brother owes Heather an apology. Or maybe she just doesn’t care. Either way, best of luck to you.”

This time, I was done. I got my last words in, and I posted the above conversation on my own Facebook page. I was proud of what I said and how I said it. I’m an intelligent woman, and I’m a writer who’s a graduate student at a college that focuses on social justice. I thought I’d receive a barrage of support. But instead, I had a handful of people tell me to stop engaging these clowns, that it just wasn’t worth it, that people like this don’t change, that it was pointless. And I agreed…for a few hours. But then I thought about it and realized that by not engaging them, by not expressing myself, by giving up and accepting these two as pointless, I’d be doing exactly what the jackasses would want me to do. What they’d expect me to do. I’d be acting like the Democrat I am. We’re a weak party. We don’t stand up for ourselves. We get kicked in the teeth, and we just accept it. We move on and forget about it. Where Republicans don’t. They pick a fight and stand their ground. They punch and keep on punching.

With less than two weeks to go before the next presidential election, I’m not going to sit back and pretend it’s okay for people to behave like jerks. I’m not going to choose to NOT engage people who resort to using threats and degrading language to try and get their point across. I will stand my ground and express my opinion. And I hope the rest of the Democratic Party will do the same!

Shine by Lauren Myracle

My rating: 3 of 5 stars

In the town of Black Creek, North Carolina a high school boy is brutally attacked outside of the gas station where he worked. The attack is considered a hate crime. Patrick is gay. For Cat—the girl who was once Patrick’s best friend—the attack leaves her feeling guilty. She’d turned her back on their friendship several years earlier because of her own secret, and now that Patrick is lying in a coma in a hospital, she’s determined to find out the truth.
Shine is the story of Cat’s journey toward uncovering a town mystery. But in setting out to discover who attacked Patrick, she also rediscovers herself. She turned her back on Patrick and her other friends because she couldn’t face the truth about what happened to her. It was easier to keep her shame a secret, just as it was easier for Patrick to keep his own secret. What happened to him is blamed on gay-bashing out-of-towners, but Cat knows her town too well, and within her own circle of friends and family are a myriad of anti-gay voices.
Shine plays out like a typical mystery novel—a protagonist in search of clues, interviewing locals, digging up secrets, eavesdropping on conversations. But there were times when I felt like this aspect of the story was written in a way that would appeal more to a middle grade audience rather than young adult (where I felt like I was reading a super sleuth detective series). However, Myracle’s use of language and the degree of content (sex, language, violence) are reasons why Shine should not be considered anything less than young adult. The mix of Cat’s “super sleuthing” and her burden of trying to understand the very adult nature of what happened to her (and to what happened to Patrick) left me feeling like I should have been reading two very different novels.
Myracle does a nice job of describing the people and places of the deep North Carolina backwoods, especially through the dialog between the characters. And the mystery of what happened to Patrick kept me turning the pages. I just couldn’t completely connect with Cat’s character—some moments, she was the 16-year-old girl struggling with the harsh reality of life (of her own pain and that of Patrick’s), and other times, she was a little kid on a mission to solve a town mystery, but a mystery much less harrowing than a boy severely beaten for being gay.



View all my reviews