The Monday Book – These Precious Days: Essays by Ann Patchett

Guest review by Janelle Bailey, retired Literature teacher.

Oh. My. Goodness.

Having picked up a signed copy of this book in an adorable, well-stocked, and well-staffed bookshop in Waterbury, Vermont, last December, I have been just waiting for the “right” time to read this book ever since. It was supposed to be our April book club selection, but we pushed it off until May to read the more timely right instead for April Wisconsin author’s From Borsch to Burgers: A Cross-Cultural Memoir by Ukrainian American Ruslana Westerlund. And Ruslana joined our April book club meeting. It was all just as it should have been!

So this became my next read.

And then I started to get texts from book club friends indicating that this book was (IS!) amazing. I was especially compelled by the number of them that came in succession from one particular member and now also far more than that and a FRIEND, a true friend, very much of the type that Ann and Sooki become for each other in the title essay in this very book.

Her texts urged me to pick it up and right now. And so I did. And then there were other things that were just simply divine about that timing, including but not limited to:

–my having posted that VERY morning a review of Jonathan Franzen’s Crossroads, though I had actually read it and written my first review more than a week prior. And by golly, Patchett’s essay (how in the world?!) made a statement about Franzen himself that, although not her point or purpose completely, helped me wrestle through a niggling discomfort I retained about the book, even after finishing my somewhat waffly review.

–learning that Patchett owns a bookstore…I did not know!

–learning that that bookstore is in Nashville (and these two points gleaned merely from the jacket) and that one can order signed copies of books–requesting inscription from Patchett on hers, even–directly from her bookstore (O.M.Goodness)

–(ARGH!) having been through Nashville in March and denied (I acquiesced amenably, actually) a bookstore stop by my husband and youngest daughter (YES! I do have enough books and can easily get more and don’t need any right now, and yes we are in a hurry to complete another 6–actually more–hours of driving today; AND it wasn’t even Ann Patchett’s bookstore that was on my radar–so it’s all okay…THIS time! ((Next time we’ll schedule our trip through more appropriately! Or I’ll go there separately…)))

–Patchett’s brilliance

–her honesty and sincerity; her personal brand of humility; her writing craft; more

–the value of the essence of nearly every single essay in this collection and my inability to find a single one that I would not read again or that could have been omitted; every single one of them is of importance and value and merit

–that she feels about some things EXACTLY as I do and about others very differently, but I never felt offended nor defeated in those disagreements and just want to, gosh…go for a long walk with her, sip some tea, do some yoga, maybe map out how many books we have both read and doodle about them or something

Given all that is going on in the world and right now, I tend to feel overwhelmed and sometimes alone, in thinking that nobody “gets it” quite like I do and/or I am just not able to “do” enough.  Reading this book made me, quite honestly, feel better. AND: it made me think that I, too, could still become a writer myself afterall. Though the craft is still rocket science or comparable, the subject(s) here are both simple and complex but also the very things I’d like to write about: where I have been (amazing places), what I have done (ordinary things that seem extraordinary at times in reflection), whom I have met (family to famous and a lot of new FRIENDS made in the process), etc.

Please: read this one and tell me if you don’t also want to just meet Ann Patchett in your pjs and chitchat, catch up and for as long as it takes. Truly, if you read and tell me it was “meh” for you, we’ll probably still have a good talk, and we’ll learn some important things about each other. And if you tell me you loved it and similarly, we’ll also have a good talk…and then hopefully many more of those as well.

No Pressure

So this weekend is going to be a little weird…

This afternoon Jack and I drive up to Fairfax to old friends Barbara and Bernard, of the Celtic Band Iona. We’re doing a house concert for their Swift Run series tomorrow night.

We’re going up today because at 11:59 pm tonight, the prompt drops for Round 3 of the NYT Short Story Challenge. It’s been on my bucket list to enter for years, and finally I got around to it. And am now halfway through the challenge, whittled from more than eleven thousand entries to just 215 writers advancing.

The contest gives you a character, a setting, and a genre. My first one was action-adventure, coast to coast, and an oddball. Yeah, thanks. But they loved my story of a murder victim who crocheted the killer’s identity into a shawl. (Whew!)

Next up was drama, a personal chef, and the digital divide. Having spent my life working with people caught in poverty traps, that wasn’t quite so hard, and the feedback was wonderful.

How I found out I was advancing in the competition: a friend needed to be picked up at the Roanoke airport about 10 pm. Back home about 11:45, I did what Americans do to try and calm for sleep: checked my messages. There it was, notification of the second round winners. You clicked on the group you were assigned, and the name of the five selected stories and their authors would appear in a row.

I clicked twice to confirm what I was seeing: Wendy Welch “Across the Great Divide” SYNOPSIS: Forty Cornish hens are all that stand between Rona’s family and homelessness. A cell phone would have been more useful.

And stayed up for another hour, just clicking again and again, staring at the notification.

So Friday night I will get up about 11:45, read the prompt, jot down some ideas and go back to sleep. Saturday, I’ll get up at my friends’ house and start writing. They have offered to leave fruit and crackers outside the door for me. It is the sweetest thing when friends you haven’t seen in forever set up to isolate you so you can fulfill a fun dream.

Saturday night we do the concert, and a dozen lovely friends will beta read the draft I send. Sunday morning, get up early and get that puppy edited and sent, then drive home for a 7 pm online book launch. Stories for Social Action has been in the works awhile, and the Healing Story Alliance is celebrating its release. I’m on at 7:30. By then the NYT story will be in.

I will sleep the sleep of the dead (or the deeply troubled) and get up Monday rejoicing as a befuddled person to run a race. My day job has a board meeting that afternoon.

Monday night, I will sit and stare at the wall, methinks. That sounds good.