She's Come Undone

Wally Lamb Gives Voice to a Favourite Heroine

It's getting to the season where some folks are looking for a good beach read. She’s Come Undone by Wally Lamb lacks the lightness of a summer read, but it’s still easy to get lost in the saga-like plot and colourful cast of characters.

Its jacket describes the book as a “coming-of-age odyssey,” and I’d say that’s pretty accurate. The story begins in 1956 as four-year-old Dolores Price and her mother await delivery of a new television set. The set is a gift from her father’s rich and overly-attentive female employer, and the reader quickly gets a sense that all is not well in Dolores’s world.

Her father’s multiple infidelities, together with the loss of a baby in childbirth, lead to divorce and her mother’s severe depression, for which she is institutionalized. Dolores goes to live with her grandmother: a woman she hates, where she encounters various school bullies and a strange collection of neighbours. At thirteen, with her mother now out of the hospital and living in the grandmother’s home, Dolores is raped by a charismatic married tenant. She slides into years of compulsive eating, TV-watching, and ongoing conflicts with her mother. Then, her mother is killed in a workplace accident and Dolores reluctantly decides to honour her mother’s wish that she go to college.

The college experience is unhappy (Dolores is bullied by many because of her weight and experiences unwelcome interest by a college staffer). Eventually she snaps, killing the staffer’s pet fish and escaping to Cape Cod to see a TV-featured dying whale before being institutionalized for seven years. With the help of a forward-thinking psychiatrist, Dolores gradually confronts her traumas, including her mother’s affair with the man who raped her. She moves to a half-way house, then productive employment, where she stumbles upon the location of her college roommate’s neglected boyfriend and decides to move to his community. A relationship ensues, and all seems initially rosy, but they disagree about having a child. Dolores reluctantly has an abortion and they marry, but after four years and an infidelity on his part the marriage ends.

About the same time, her grandmother dies, and Dolores ends up back in the house she’d longed to escape. She stays put, getting several jobs, but regresses in the midst of this stressful transition: belligerent behaviour at work, seclusion, and overeating. Her grandmother’s eccentric—now disabled—neighbour, Roberta, re-enters the picture and helps refocus Dolores, as does her former high school counsellor, Mr. Pucci: a gay man who has lost his long-time partner to AIDS and is infected as well. Dolores re-connects with an employer who sees her potential and offers to fund some college classes. There she meets and ultimately marries a fellow student and single father; they’d both like to have a child, but by the end of the book they’re still trying. As the story closes her husband takes her on another trip to Cape Cod. This time she is able to celebrate the sighting of a live whale breaking through the waves.

Apologies for the long synopsis, but it’s a meaty book. Reading it again, I felt like I’d been put through the emotional ringer; yet it was worth it, as always. Because amidst this odyssey of hurdles and heartbreak, there is also a strong sense of hope and the possibility of transformation. As well, along the way, Dolores finds multiple allies who soften life’s blows and expand her world.

Of the many books I’ve read, this stays on my bookshelf for several reasons. It's not another idealized depiction of life in the 1950s, with an intact flourishing nuclear family. That was new to me. In addition, when originally published, much was made about the author’s ability to write convincingly as a young female in the first person. While this is a lesser element in my overall assessment, it is still noteworthy.

The book also does a good job of illustrating how early trauma, particularly when not expressed or dealt with, can strongly influence the trajectory of our lives: our choices, what we feel we deserve, our triggers, and many other aspects. As research shows, the more trauma or adverse life events experienced when young, the more profound the negative impacts on physical, mental, and social health as life unfolds. Given Dolores’s early and multiple adversities, the reader has some context for understanding her subsequent behaviours. She is frustrating and unsympathetic at times—often her own worst enemy—yet I continued to root for Dolores Price throughout. And, she is just one of many multi-dimensional characters in the book: flawed yet endearing, and that rang very true to me.

I’ve always been drawn to stories of the underdog, and those who persevere through adversity to find their place and purpose in the world. Wally Lamb has created such a story, where life can be hard, people can be imperfect, and there can still be a way forward amidst that messiness.

A Love Story with a Twist

“We read to know we are not alone.” This powerful line from William Nicholson’s play (also a movie), Shadowlands, has stayed with me and is an integral aspect of why I value books and reading so much. Books can transport us to new lands and adventures, but they can also share emotional states, relationship struggles, and other experiences that are very much part of the human condition. It can be comforting and validating when an author's work and words reflect our own experience.

That's a long preamble to my latest blog post, but it speaks to the particular value of the book I introduce. The book is Drinking: A Love Story by the late Caroline Knapp. I can’t remember how I came upon this book: whether through a deliberate topic search or pure serendipity. I recall, however, that it was a book I sorely needed at the time.

This memoir tells the story of a successful writer/columnist who seemingly had it all. She also had a secret: an intense love affair with alcohol. Those who knew her best admittedly saw some red flags in her drinking but, for the most part, she presented a veneer of success in work and life. She came from a well-off, professional family; was a popular, high-functioning writer who put work first; had good friends and intimate relationships, and always looked fit and put-together.

But like many alcohol-infused biographies, there were transition points that took her drinking from social, to heavy and periodically problematic, to a realm where it took control of her life, priorities, and decision-making.

Knapp recounts how her drinking escalated when her father: a complex, renowned psychiatrist (with his own secrets, including alcoholism) was diagnosed with an inoperable brain tumour. At that point “all bets were off…his illness opened up a well of fear in my chest that felt bottomless, and I drank to fill it, to escape it, to numb it.”

And eventually there was hitting bottom, which looks different for everyone. It often involves a significant negative consequence to drinking that offers someone a moment of clarity regarding the destructive situation, and can spark a strong resolution to change. What had started as a relationship with alcohol full of passion, promise, and solutions, almost imperceptibly morphed into one of betrayal, heartbreak, and regret.

Ultimately, Knapp goes to rehab and gets sober: a happy ending but she doesn’t sugar-coat the particularly tough psychological process of doing this hard work. She is equally eloquent, though, about the rewards of sobriety, even as she describes walking through the experience of losing her mother to a recurrence of cancer without the protective layer of alcohol to numb and soothe.

My personal library is stocked with drug and alcohol recovery memoirs, but this one rises to the top. It was the first to tell a story I could relate to, in writing so beautiful I would re-read passages and savour her words and their ability to so accurately capture the imperfections and emotional vulnerability we try to hide in our attempt to appear together and OK. That may sound a little over-the-top, but I think it’s one of writing’s great superpowers: to unearth something in us that frees us, comforts us, emboldens us.

I post this on May 15^th, 2022 because it was on this date 15 years ago that I severed my relationship with alcohol. What had started as a way to cope with a parent’s unfathomable terminal illness, became a habitual way to take the edge off life’s inevitable stressors for many years to come. I never missed a day of work or paying a bill, and even graduated top of my graduate school class, which is why Knapp’s experience as a high-functioning alcohol misuser resonated so strongly with me. But “high-functioning” is essentially an illusion, because negative impacts to health, relationship quality, spirit, etc. still exist and accrue; it can also be a barrier to admitting there’s a problem. Because Knapp’s experience paralleled mine in some elemental ways, it had a significant influence and impact on one of my most important life decisions.

And so, I come back to my blog’s beginning, and the idea of books and reading offering us a sense that we are not alone in our challenges, aspirations, and perspectives. That sense of shared experience can be a powerful force in engendering self-acceptance and, in some cases, personal transformation.

NOTE: Six years after her 1996 memoir was published, Caroline Knapp died of lung cancer at the age of 42. As I read the obituary I felt she'd been cheated. Alcohol didn’t get her but cigarettes likely did. 

A Child's Garden of Verses

Robert Louis Stevenson’s Classic Endures

With this post, I’m moving away from the dense, research-packed pages of Quiet, to lighter fare. This choice is no doubt influenced by the uplift I often feel as spring emerges and the days start getting longer and warmer.

A Child’s Garden of Verses by Robert Louis Stevenson is one of the first books I remember. I had never actually read it until a few weeks ago, because it was only ever read to me. I’m sure this was a big part of its magic.

When this collection of 64 short poems for children was published in 1885, one reviewer wrote that “[the author] not only knows what the children like, but he likes it along with them.” Even though Stevenson was 35 when he wrote this collection, he clearly hadn’t lost the sense of what it was like to be a child, infusing his own childhood joys, cares, and imagination into each poem.

The collection begins with a dedication to his childhood nurse, Alison Cunningham, who cared for him during his many childhood illnesses. Poems like “The Land of Counterpane,” and a section of poems called The Child Alone evoke the loneliness of being young, ill, and without companions. However, despite the challenges of being confined and/or alone, the children in Stevenson’s poems use their imaginations to entertain themselves.

There are also plenty of poems that celebrate the freedom and carefree nature of childhood like “Summer Sun,” “The Flowers,” and “The Swing.” Or, they reflect the adventure of creating new worlds through imagination like “My Bed is a Boat,” “Foreign Lands,” and “My Kingdom.”

The poems I remember most are ones focused on bedtime, which is probably not surprising since it’s when I usually heard them. I’m sure my parents appreciated the power of suggestion in “The Land of Nod,” but the poem that resonated most with me was called “Bed in Summer,” which speaks of a child’s struggle to go to bed when the world is still light and seeming very much awake. I’ll not recount the whole poem but include the last stanza to illustrate the author’s knack for reflecting the real experiences of a child, in soothing verse that helps the reader feel fully understood:

    And does it not seem hard to you, 
    When all the sky is clear and blue,
    And I should like so much to play,
    To have to go to bed by day?

In the last poem of his collection, “To Any Reader,” Stevenson offers a somewhat bittersweet message to both children and adults: the relatively carefree days of childhood are fleeting, and too soon they become memory. The poem also suggests that this collection is not just for children, but addresses themes that also resonate with adults, such as loss and loneliness.

Despite being written over 100 years ago, several commentators note how strongly the collection has stood the test of time. One suggests that it’s achieved this by avoiding cloying Victorian sentiment, outdated attitudes (for the most part), and moralistic lessons. Instead, Stevenson’s work continues to offer the reader vivid rhythmic writing about the business of being a child. Even in small and familiar places or things: a bed, a river, a garden, even our shadow, there is opportunity for wonder and delight.

While many present-day children will find these poems entertaining and understandable, the collection still reflects childhood in a very different time. There’s an innocence and romanticism that may feel out of step with more contemporary child-focused stories, so the poems may not resonate with everyone. But, this 100+-year-old collection is guaranteed to remind modern readers (child or adult) about the value of engaging our innate imagination and creativity. In a time when tech distractions abound and life is ever faster, we benefit all the more from the space to dream and let our fertile minds wander where they will. 

The Power of Introverts

What’s it like to be an introvert in a culture that subscribes to the extrovert ideal? What do we stand to lose by undervaluing and/or misunderstanding introverts? These are just some of the themes Susan Cain explores in her 2012 ground-breaking book Quiet: The Power of Introverts in a World That Can’t Stop Talking.

The concepts of introversion and extroversion are not new. Carl Jung popularized these (as the central building blocks of personality) over one hundred years ago. But Susan Cain’s book moves beyond psychological theory and classification to explore the implications of being an introvert in various social contexts, many of which seem structured in favour of the extrovert. She looks at the unique and often overlooked strengths of introverts and the advantages of recognizing these in a more deliberate way, particularly as one third to one half of the population are introverts.

The author admits there are almost as many definitions of introversion-extroversion as there are personality psychologists. However, there are several important points psychologists can usually agree on. Introverts and extroverts typically differ in the amount of stimulation they prefer, with introverts needing/seeking less stimulation. They also work differently. Introverts often work more slowly and deliberately, with high concentration, often preferring one task at a time. Extroverts tend to tackle assignments and decisions quickly, and are more comfortable with multi-tasking, risk-taking, and conflict. In the social realm, extroverts are often more dominant, assertive, and in need of company; they also think out loud and on their feet, preferring talking to listening. In contrast, introverts may have strong social skills, but have more finite energy for larger social events and small talk. They often prefer more intimate in-depth conversations, nurturing a smaller social circle, listening more than talking, and writing as opposed to talking.

Cain also does some myth-busting. Being an introvert is not the same as being a hermit or anti-social, nor are introverts necessarily shy. The author includes a 20-item assessment scale to give the reader a sense of where they might fall on the introversion-extroversion spectrum. Although, she notes, there is really no such thing as a pure introvert or extrovert and behaviour can also shift with circumstances. [Note: I include a few online scales below]

After introducing the basics, the author explores extroversion as a cultural ideal, and how this impacts assumptions around leadership, creativity, and workplace dynamics/structure. Although, there are select cultures where this is not the case. She also examines the nature versus nurture question regarding temperament, and provides some practical guidance for introverts re: navigating an extroversion-centric culture, parenting introverted children, and how to communicate in a mixed introverted-extroverted relationship. Woven throughout is considerable research and personal stories/case studies that help illustrate her ideas.

The late distinguished Hungarian-American psychologist Mihaly Csikszentmihaly offered an endorsement of this book, writing that introverts “will feel a burden lifting from their shoulders” as they read this book. And that is exactly how it felt for me. It was eye-opening and incredibly validating to see myself so accurately reflected in these pages; the experience was instrumental in helping me reframe my introversion in a more positive, strength-based light.

And I know I'm not alone in this experience. Whether introvert, extrovert, or somewhere in between, Quiet continues to provide us with a more accessible language to talk about our differences and how we can understand, celebrate, and leverage these attributes in multiple realms of work and play. In the ten years since this book was published the topic has gained further traction through such titles as The Introvert Advantage, social media groups like Introverts are Awesome, and workplace-focused training and development.

Are you an introvert or extrovert? Is this distinction meaningful to you and, if so, how?

Online Assessment Resources

• https://introvertdear.com/introvert-extrovert-test-quiz/
• https://testyourself.psychtests.com/testid/2094

Beyond Nancy Drew

Forty+ Years of Loving the Whodunit

When I worked at the public library in my late teens, I would often roll my eyes at the enthusiasm of the more mature patrons for the mystery section. Fast forward forty plus years and I'm now one of those patrons; the mystery section is my first destination.

To set the stage, a quick definition (Wikipedia). A mystery is a genre of fiction where the perpetrator of an event (usually a murder or other crime) remains mysterious until the end of the story. There is typically a circle of suspects, which may change throughout the story, who have a credible motive and opportunity to commit the crime. The central character(s) is often some type of detective who eventually solves the mystery by logical deduction, from facts presented to the reader.

Several “girl detective” series including Nancy Drew and Trixie Belden served as the gateway to my long-term love of mysteries. I hadn’t read one of these in many years, so I tracked down a few familiar titles and re-read them. What was it about these books that had kept me coming back for more back then? And, what is it about mysteries in general that continues to hold my interest decades later?

Re-reading a couple of Nancy Drew mysteries as a mature reader was an interesting experience. They were understandably dated and the plots pretty contrived, yet I could still see the appeal to my younger self. The stories jump right into the action, there is typically travel, and the teenaged heroine has a car, a low-maintenance boyfriend, and is brimming with confidence. As with most mysteries, there is resolution in the end (in these books it often involves reclaiming actual treasure), which continues to be strangely comforting in a world where loose ends and shades of grey are the norm.

There is further appeal in a series, as readers can get to know the characters and ideally see these characters evolve. That’s not always the case but, even then, there is a welcome sense of familiarity at the start of each new adventure. The dynamics of the characters as they work together to solve the mystery is also a big draw for me. This is not a large feature in the Nancy Drew series, where the complexity of the characters is limited, but in several mystery series I’ll explore in subsequent blogs the relationship and growth of characters over time becomes a rich element of the story.

As one of my friends pointed out, the mystery as a literary genre may not always get the respect it deserves. And, I suspect, there are some who have a very distinct idea of what a mystery is, not realizing the many varieties now available. In the tradition of Agatha Christie and P.D. James, the classic England-centric mystery is still alive and well; Elizabeth George is a contemporary favourite of mine in this realm. But there are also many other options for the dedicated or prospective mystery reader to explore.

Mysteries come in all levels of intensity, from “cozy” mysteries to higher-action thrillers. I’ve also noticed mysteries revolving around many different interests and situations: baking, knitting, wine-making, libraries or bookstores, house/pet-sitting, gardening, and many more. Medical and legally-focused mysteries are another very popular mystery type, as are those set in the past. And, mysteries also range in terms of the expertise of the “detective(s)” involved, from the amateur who has a penchant for stumbling from one crime scene into another, to the private detective/professional sleuth, to the “police procedural” made popular through many TV series. In fact, the blog Murder by 4 outlines 13 types of mysteries, and there are likely more.

While mysteries aren’t for everyone, I encourage anyone who’s curious to scan the offerings of your local library (in-person or online) and try out anything that catches your eye. In this time of extended uncertainty, there is something very enticing about escaping into a world where reason and resolution rein. 

Surprised by the Comfort and Joy of Poetry

Given the season, it would make sense for me to post about an inspirational book that has particular meaning for me this time of year. But I’m going to go in a slightly different direction.

Before I left my health promotion job with the BC Public Service, I wrote a blog that spoke to the different experiences people can have during the holiday season. Losses, loneliness, and other less-than-ideal circumstances can make this a difficult time of year for some (perhaps many). I wasn’t trying to be downer, only offer a reminder that all is not merry and bright for everyone. That awareness can potentially open the door to a thoughtful connection with someone who needs it the most.

Even in ideal circumstances, the holidays can be stressful for various reasons, including too much on our plates, conflict, or unrealistic expectations in various forms. So, I also advocated for taking care of ourselves, which looks different for each of us. It could involve just taking a short walk if you don’t have much time, enjoying a usually “forbidden” treat (in moderation), escaping into a new book, or commemorating someone special you’ve lost.

As I wrapped up the blog, I also shared the last five lines of a favourite Mary Oliver poem: Wild Geese, saying that it never failed to lift me up when I was feeling blue or disconnected, because it reminded me that there is always beauty, hope, and a broader world out there (of which we are all a part).

It surprised me to be sharing a poem, as it was not a genre of writing that ever resonated with me. My father and sister were/are poetry appreciators and writers, but I never really got the point of it.

Then a meditation teacher of mine integrated poetry into our classes and introduced us to the late Mary Oliver’s writing. Her poetry seemed different somehow, or perhaps I’d just had a very narrow conception of what poetry could be.

Through her work, Oliver communicates a reverence for the beauty and wisdom of the natural world; tackles tough topics like death and loss, and speaks plainly about living consciously (“Tell me, what is it you plan to do with your one wild and precious life?”). I was (and am) also drawn to the intimate and almost conversational tone of her work, underpinned by gentle rhythms, which always seem to catch my ear—whether poetry or prose. Admittedly, I know nothing about the techniques or structure of poetry; I only know what I like (which is how I consume visual art as well).

If you’re interested in sampling some of Mary Oliver’s poems, there are websites available, as well as compilations like “New and Selected Poems: Volume One.” They are a great place to start.

Now that I’ve dipped my toe into the poetry pond, I am more open to exploring other authors, albeit in baby steps. Recently a friend and I were talking about a mutual appreciation for the poem The Peace of Wild Things by Wendell Berry. That felt like progress to me.

Wishing you a healthy and peaceful holiday season, however that looks to you.

A Sad Southern Story

Full of rich themes, lyrical prose, and the complexity of family

I came across Beach Music (Pat Conroy) shortly after my mother’s death in the early 1990s. Independently, my father also stumbled upon it about the same time. While we were both enthusiastic readers—particularly my father—our tastes were very different. But, for some reason, we both found this book and were enchanted by it.

I suspect its darker themes resonated with us at the time. The main character Jack McCall is a pre-middle-aged father whose wife committed suicide, leaving him to raise his young daughter Leah alone. In the wake of their loss and a painful custody dispute, Jack takes a very young Leah from their southern US home and creates a quiet travel writer’s life in Italy. Despite Leah’s contentment in Europe, she becomes increasingly curious about her father’s (and mother’s) pasts and families, hungry to find her place amongst them. When Jack’s estranged mother falls ill with leukemia, he reluctantly returns to his hometown in South Carolina, first alone, then with his daughter.

In many ways the bones of this story are unremarkable. But woven throughout are layers of themes and sub-plots that add considerable flesh to those bones. Jack’s deceased wife Shyla is the child of Holocaust survivors. Her parents continue to carry the weight of this experience, and Shyla’s severe depression is related. The impact of her suicide pervades particularly the early parts of the book, yet interspersed throughout is also the lighter tale of Jack and Shyla’s courtship, marriage, and early years as parents to Leah.

One of Jack’s four brothers is also mentally ill: a paranoid schizophrenia, in and out of residential treatment. Their father, once a successful lawyer, now very publicly struggles with alcoholism. His ex-wife is Jack’s society-conscious (although also ecologically minded) mother who is re-married to a stable doctor. She suffers two bouts of leukemia throughout the book and ultimately dies from the disease. Then there’s the paternal grandmother, a regular escapee from her nursing home.

Jack’s (mostly male) friends also play significant roles in this story. Conroy’s love of the South shines through in the nostalgia they share for their younger more carefree years. One friend: a successful film producer, starts putting together a project to capture the essence of those heady days. Another friend, central to this group and the son of a buttoned-down military man, is a Vietnam draft dodger living abroad as priest. Like Jack, he is pulled back into the issues and strained relationships he has tried to escape. And, a potential new romance for Jack slowly emerges as the book unfolds, reflecting a rising theme of possibility in the midst of loss, hope in the midst of sorrow.

Although I have read many complex and wonderfully crafted stories, few have created such a lasting impression and kept me coming back for so many subsequent reads. So, what was it about this book that resonated so strongly with my father and I? I can’t speak for my father (sadly) but, for me, three aspects of this story are most powerful.

Its setting in the south is a big draw. My grandmother grew up in the south before moving to Canada, and there’s something about that area that continues to intrigue me. Beyond that, the author’s clear reverence for this region shines through. Even Jack, who tries valiantly to escape his southern roots, is slowly drawn back into its beauty, traditions, and his elemental identity as a southern man. Some might find this aspect too romanticized, but I appreciated the author’s obvious passion for place.

I was also thoroughly captivated by the prose, which has a comforting and melodic flow. This cadence continues throughout, even amidst the darker themes. I love it when a writer’s style catches my ear and reminds me of the beauty of language; Pat Conroy is one of those writers.

And finally, Beach Music reflects the messiness of families: families of origin, blended families, families we create, friends as family—the whole catastrophe. At a time when my family had lost its centre and I saw no acceptable way forward, this story was reassuring in its depiction of families and friends at their most vulnerable. They somehow moved through difficult times, often helped by a long-time affection for one another, as well as a little humour. While some losses stay with us for a lifetime, opportunity and hope can still sit alongside.

Whenever I re-read Beach Music, it’s like coming home to a challenging, multi-layered, life-affirming experience. And, when I immerse myself in the complexities and the imperfections of its families, I’m also reconnected to my own. My father and I were very different readers (and people), so I’m forever grateful we shared a deep appreciation for this sad and hopeful tale.