Bookworm Press

Helen Ginger’s debut novel is the powerful story of a young survivor. Gritty, self-doubting, and kind-hearted Angel is determined not to let painful and horrible incidences in her childhood prevent her from living a full and successful life. Homeless for several years, she secures a job and works and studies to get her GED and go on to college. Periodically, however, she feels unloved and is overcome by self-doubt and self-loathing. Her unresolved past haunts her and holds her back.

That past is given to us by a series of flashbacks and with each journey into the past, we find out a little more about what happened. The full truth, however, is only revealed when Angel has the courage to go back home and confront her past head-on. I loved the way the story unfolds and unlike one reviewer, I feel the flashbacks are well integrated into the plot and deepen our understanding of Angel’s character and destiny.

Angel works as one of the swimming mermaids in a bar. I have never heard of such a job, so this was a very interesting part of the book. While I agree with one reviewer that the scenes with Angel and her co-workers swimming in the huge aquarium are at times a little repetitive, I also felt that the mermaid becomes an important image in the story. The mermaid has been a powerful symbol since ancient times in mythology, literature, folk tales, and psychology. There are many different interpretations by experts in many fields. I don’t attempt to add another one. I’m merely giving some ideas about what the mermaid meant for me personally within the context of this story.

The mermaid is creature of two worlds, the sea and the land, animal and human, or, in a more psychological sense, part of the world of consciousness and reason and everyday life on the one hand and part of the unconscious, the mysterious, the instincts, including sexuality, on the other hand. The mermaid has access to both worlds but is also trapped in both. Angel works as a mermaid swimmer in an aquarium but Angel is a mermaid in more than one sense. She struggles with her everyday life, with love, and relationships and while she does quite well surviving and supporting herself, she is held back from becoming fully human by a past she hasn’t dealt with and hence hasn’t been able to free herself from. She is bound by her mermaid’s tail, so to speak. How constricting this tail—this crippling past–can be we see as one of her co-workers almost drowns when her tail gets stuck in the narrow space she has to swim through to get into the aquarium.

In the end Angel goes back home to find out what really happened in her childhood when her father hurt her and her mother seemingly abandoned her, and what she finds is both painful and liberating. Ultimately, she has the chance to strip off her mermaid’s tail and stand more securely on her two human legs.

Powerful story, beautiful descriptions, heart-felt emotions, and believable, genuine characters—a truly great first novel. I hope the author continues on her path as fiction writer!

In CEL & ANNA Lindsay Edmunds created a twenty-second century world full of fabulous events and fascinating characters. Her book LIGHTHORSE MAGIC & OTHER STORIES is a series of poignant stories about some of the quirky characters we meet in CEL & ANNA. These are companion stories to CEL & ANNA but they are fascinating enough on their own. In the first story, we meet Anna Ringer, the heroine in CEL & ANNA, and her mysterious and creepy employer Lighthorse Magic, a company that spies on humans for supposedly scientific research. The second story deals with Tamara Klugman, whose dull life transforms into a fascinating quest to save the world and the third story deals with Joan Holland, another character from CEL & ANNA, who is faced with the choice of protecting innocent people from the cruel and preying Public Eye, aka the Government.

Lindsay Edmund’s writing is different from anything I have read in the science fiction/fantasy genre. She does a great job of mixing reality with fantasy. I love her original and refreshing style, the vivid images, and the wonderfully wicked humor. You don’t need to be a science fiction fan to enjoy these stories. A fast-paced, brilliant read. Highly recommended.

I enjoy an author that can use description to carry me away and place me in locations that I can enjoy within my mind’s eye. Christa Polkinhorn does just that in Love of a Stonemason. From Switzerland to Italy to Peru, I enjoyed vistas I will never see; felt breezes across lakes and through valleys I will never personally feel; was surrounded by local scents from exotic dishes and fields of flowers that I will never smell.

The title of her book first intrigued me as my grandfather was a stonemason and her Andreas brought back many memories of watching the way ‘Grampa’ could press his will upon a piece of granite.

Her Karla is an artist and I understood her challenges when approaching a blank canvas. Once upon a time I painted and Christa tweaked my mind with the scent of turpentine and the feel of paint on the brush as it made magic on the easel.

But more than a romance between creative minds, this story digs deep into the early trauma of each and follows their struggle in resolving their individual demons.

This would be the perfect book to tuck in your suitcase or add to your kindle for that “myself” time this summer. Pick your own special spot – perhaps in the shade of a maple tree beside a secluded cove at the lake. Ah, sounds of waves lapping gently on the shore, glass of wine and Love of a Stonemason.

Elizabeth Egerton Wilder
Author of The Spruce Gum Box

I would like to share a sensitive and insightful review of my novel Love of a Stonemason by Crystal Fulcher at her book blog My Reading Room.

Why I read this: The author sent me information about the book asking if I would like to review it, I was intrigued by the premise and agreed (and I am really glad I did).

How is the novel driven: Characters are the driving force in this book. It’s about Karla, Andreas, family and friends.

My Thoughts: The first thing that went through my mind when I finished this book on Friday night was simply “Wow”. I felt like I had been told a full story and while I wanted more of Karla and Andreas at the end, the story really was complete. I don’t know when was the last time I truly felt that when I finished a book. Ms. Polkinhorn did a magnificient job crafting this story and getting it on the page. The characters, scenery and happenings in the book really came alive for me and I felt like I was watching and feeling Karla and Andreas through the full book.

How to classify this book – I first thought it sounded like a romance, but after finishing it, I would say it is more general fiction. Romance is key, Karla and Andreas’ relationship is very key to the book. But most romance novels stop after dating and marriage usually, sometimes with glimpses of family life if there are several books in a series. The beauty of Ms. Polkinhorn’s novel is that it continues through the years after they marry and delves much deeper into the characters of Karla and Andreas as they tackle the new ups and downs of marriage, of their art and of family.

Love of a Stonemason never lags in plot. Whether you are looking into depression, the ups of a great art career, the separation (distance-wise) of Andreas and Karla, starting a family, all of this flowed together so well and made a great story. I was never bored and wondering when something good would happen. It was all interesting and attention getting. It’s as edge-of-your-seat as a non-thriller work can get. I was always wondering what would happen next, what aspect of life would be shown.

The realism is beautiful too. Love of a Stonemason truly shows the ups and downs of life, love and family. No family or person is perfect, there are always problems and always two sides to a story and that is what this book really looks into. I love that every aspect is shown and I really enjoyed the growth of the characters. Andreas and Karla are not superficial, you really get to know them through the whole book. I felt as though I knew them personally. The foreign setting and descriptions of landscapes and cities is also well-done. I also enjoyed learning about the art world, something that never really interested me before, but the author does a great job of making it interesting.

I laughed, I cried, I was frustrated with the characters (in a good way). I think I ran through most every emotion with this book. And what I love most is the feeling of the complete story and it’s a story that will stick with me for some time. I found myself thinking of Karla and Andreas and the other people in their lives through the weekend. Really letting the story settle over me and how I feel now is that this is a definite reread in my book and that is saying something since I don’t really reread books. My true hope is Ms. Polkinhorn will have another book on the way so I have another one of her books to enjoy. She brings realism to the story without it depressing you and leaving you down for days and I really like that. I do not have any complaints about this book and I think those of you who enjoy general fiction with a foreign-flair and romance will really enjoy this book.

My Rating: 5.0/5.0

About the Book:

The young painter, Karla Bocelli, is all too familiar with loss. When she was five years old, her mother died in a car crash in the south of Switzerland. Her Peruvian father lives at the other end of the world, and a year ago, her aunt and guardian passed away. Now, at age twenty-four, Karla almost gets hit by a speeding car. As if this wasn’t fateful enough, Andreas, the driver, turns out to be a sculptor and carver of tombstones. In spite of his profession, Andreas is anything but morbid. Quick-tempered and intense, he exudes a rough-and-tumble energy. After a tumultuous start of their relationship, Karla comes to see in Andreas the “rock in her life,” the perfect antidote to her fears of abandonment and bouts of depression. Andreas, however, wrestles with his own ghosts: an alcoholic father who abused him as a child and his own fits of anger. Together, the two artists must confront the demons that haunt them. Love of a Stonemason is a story about the struggle of two artists with their past, their family, their creativity, and their love for each other. Told from the point of view of Karla, it depicts the world through her painter’s sensibility. It takes the reader on a journey full of sights, smells, tastes, and sounds from the south of Switzerland to Italy and the Peruvian Andes.

About the Author:

Christa Polkinhorn, originally from Switzerland, lives and works as writer and translator in Santa Monica, California. She divides her time between the United States and Switzerland and has strong ties to both countries. Her poems have appeared in various poetry magazines. She is the author of Path of Fire, a collection of poems published by Finishing Line Press. Love of a Stonemason is her first novel.

Chapter 5 of my novel Love of a Stonemason. It is available both as Kindle ebook and trade paperback at Amazon and in different ebook formats at Smashwords. Average customer reviews: 5 stars.

Blurb and Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4

     The Nordfoehn, a dry northern wind, had been blowing on and off all night. This wind was the only disadvantage in the otherwise ideal environment. Once in a while, it had an invigorating effect on Karla, but most of the time it made her feel irritable, anxious, even depressed, and gave her a headache.
     “All right. I guess I wasn’t meant to paint outside this morning,” she muttered, as another blast swept down on her. She gathered her painting tools and put them into her studio. She didn’t feel like finishing the painting inside, so she grabbed her sketch pad, sat down by the window, and thought about what to draw. She made several attempts, but was unable to concentrate.
     It wasn’t just the annoying wind. Ever since yesterday, she had been thinking of Andreas, his sculptures, his kiss. It had been more than a kiss between friends and it had stirred up emotions she didn’t care for. After a series of unsuccessful short-term relationships, Karla had decided to stay away from men for a while. And then this fierce, irritating, but oddly endearing guy with his biting humor had to turn up and unsettle her again.
     And the thing with Sarah. What was the real reason behind Sarah’s visit? Was it really just to apologize and talk about art?
     Sarah and Karla had had an on-and-off friendship for several years. They exchanged ideas about art, went to museums and galleries together, and sometimes critiqued each other’s work. The friendship, however, had cooled when Karla had caught Sarah sleeping with one of her boyfriends.
     Was Andreas attracted to Sarah? He had shown concern for her but Karla didn’t think he had more than friendly feelings for her. But then you never knew. And why should I even care? Karla tossed her drawing pad aside.
     The wind was blowing fiercely now, howling around the corners of the house and slamming one of the shutters close. When Karla stepped outside to fasten it again, she saw that the sky was a deep clear blue, the wind having wiped away all the clouds.
     Karla sat down again and forced herself to get a least one drawing done. She picked up her pad and a piece of charcoal. Almost automatically, she began to sketch Andreas, as she remembered him sitting in front of the stone slab. She realized she was out of practice drawing human figures, having focused mainly on landscapes. After several attempts, she ended up with a sketch she liked. It depicted his muscular body bending over the stone, a strand of hair hanging into his face. She left out the mask and goggles, wanting to show his face in profile.
     Perhaps she would give it to him on Saturday. Feeling more at peace again, she was ashamed of her anger at Sarah. She was her friend, after all, and Karla hadn’t even called her to find out how she was feeling after her breakdown at the opening. She picked up the phone and dialed Sarah’s number. It took a while before she answered.
     Sarah’s voice sounded tired. “I’m trying to take a nap.”
     “Sorry. I didn’t mean to disturb you; I just wanted to know how you were,” Karla said.
     “I’m okay.”
     Sarah’s distant and cool voice irritated Karla. You make an ass of yourself at my first opening. You could at least apologize. “I heard you went to see Andreas.”
     “Yes. I did. I wanted to apologize.”
     “Oh, I see. Was that the only reason? You were all over him at the opening.”
     “So? What do you care? Are you two an item or something? How did you find out I went to see him?”
     Karla felt anger rise in her like bile. “He told me. He’s my boyfriend, Sarah.” Gee, what a lie.
     It was quiet for a while at the other end. Karla could hear Sarah’s breathing. Then her voice again, friendlier now. “Karla, look, he’s great. I felt really low the last few days. Just talking to him made me feel better. I have no intention of interfering in your relationship. You’re lucky to have him as a boyfriend.”
     Karla started to feel ashamed but she still distrusted Sarah. “It wouldn’t be the first time.”
     “Oh, Karla, why bring up that old stuff. You weren’t even interested in the guy anymore.”
     “Yeah, but you didn’t know that when you jumped in the sack with him.”
     “Karla, you know what? You’re so fucking petty.”
     “Sarah, let’s not fight.” It was too late. Karla heard the click at the other end.
     Why can’t I keep my mouth shut? Karla lowered her head on her arms and sighed. Not only had she lied to Sarah about her relationship with Andreas, she had begrudged her friend the little encouragement he had given her as an artist.
     Perhaps Sarah was interested in Andreas. At least she was honest about her feelings. Karla, on the other hand, had appropriated Andreas, although she wasn’t even sure how she felt about him or how he felt about her. He had kissed her, he wanted to meet her again, but that was all. And Karla’s feelings for him? She liked him, she was even attracted to him, but she wasn’t sure she was ready to get involved.

     The following morning, it was raining, the Nordfoehn having collapsed the night before. The rain felt soothing after the harsh, dry northern wind and the sky was a lively display of towering dark clouds. The mountain tops were hidden behind layers of white mist. Stormy landscape, Rembrandt, Karla thought as she scanned the horizon. It had cooled off somewhat and the air smelled of burning wood from the neighbor’s oven.
     Later that day, Karla made an effort to clean out the storage room, which was overflowing with canvasses of half-finished and finished paintings as well as sketches on paper. She resisted this periodic chore. It forced her to decide which pieces she considered worth keeping and which she wanted to discard or paint over. Not an easy task; it required ruthless honesty and a discerning eye.
     Karla kept pulling paintings out of storage, putting them back in, pulling them back out again. In the process, she came across the canvass with the dark woman she had been struggling with. She glanced at it, shook her head, and decided to hang on to it. One day, perhaps, she would be able to finish it.
     In the evening, there was a pile of discarded sketches in the recycling bin and several canvasses that could be reused. The clean-up gave Karla a feeling of freedom. She took a deep breath and stepped outside to watch the evening settle in. It had stopped raining and the heavy clouds had thinned. The southern sky was pink with tints of purple and the evening breeze brought a whiff of wet grass.



Here is the second chapter of my novel Love of a Stonemason. It is available both as Kindle ebook and trade paperback at Amazon and in different ebook formats at Smashwords. Average customer reviews: 5 stars.

Blurb and Chapter 1

The sky was a clear blue after the thunderstorm of the past night with only a few fleecy white clouds in the north and streaks of sulfur-yellow etched on the horizon in the south. The air felt fresh and clean. It promised to be a beautiful early-summer day.
      Karla stepped outside and inhaled the sweet scent of the wisteria bush in the courtyard. However, no matter how hard she tried to enjoy the day, she felt out-of-sorts and depressed. Her nightmare, her inability to finish the painting she struggled with, and the unsettling feelings after her near-accident the day before all seemed to have banded together and attacked her, full force, in her sleep.
     Painting didn’t help, either. She wanted to go back to her colorful landscapes, drown her dark mood with globs of fiery paints but the newly stretched canvas merely stared back at her. It was glaring in its whiteness, hostile. Finally, Karla gave up trying to work. She would pay a visit to Lena and get some roses for her mother’s grave.
     Lena cultivated and sold roses and was known all over the valley and the nearby cities for her beautiful rose fields. She had been one of Karla’s closest friends for many years. Having known her mother well, Lena had often babysat Karla when she was little. Karla had spent the first five years of her life in the Maggia Valley and had moved north to live with her aunt after her mother’s and grandmother’s death. After Karla’s aunt had passed, Lena had encouraged her to move back to the Vallemaggia and had invited her to stay with them until she found a place of her own. Lena and her husband Luigi and their four children had become like a family to her.
     On the way to Lena’s, Karla passed by the rose fields which were in full bloom, although some damage from the thunderstorm was visible. A few of the bushes had been knocked to the ground and the field was strewn with rose petals, which looked like big confetti. But even so, the flowers were dazzling. Shades of red, from crimson to purple to mauve, different hues of orange, multicolored roses as well as the simple white and yellow ones sparkled in the sun and formed a pleasant contrast to the dark green of the pines in the background and the vineyards on both sides.
     Normally, Karla couldn’t walk by the rose fields without stopping to admire the abundance of colors. Today, though, she barely glanced at the flowers, although their sweet fragrance was almost overpowering.
     Karla found Lena in the large shed next to her home, busy preparing for the upcoming market. She was putting roses on the conveyor belt of a machine that separated the flowers by length, so they could be arranged into bouquets more easily. Lena was a stout motherly woman in her late forties with lively blue eyes and thick brown hair streaked with grey.
     “Hi there.” Lena gave Karla a quick smile, then continued to watch the roses glide by. She occasionally picked one up and set it aside, then turned off the machine. “How are you?”
     “I don’t know. I got up on the wrong side of the bed.” Karla blinked as the tears rose to her eyes.
     “Oh?” Lena peered at her, then took her by the arm. “Come on, the coffee is still fresh. I need a break.”
     They went inside and Lena poured them each a cup. She sat down next to Karla and put her arm around her. “So, tell me, what’s bugging you?”
     The motherly gesture broke the dam that held back Karla’s tears. All the pent-up emotions of the past couple of days flooded her. Lena waited patiently until Karla was able to stop crying. She hugged her and gently patted her back, as if to comfort a child. “What’s the matter, Karla?”
     “I just had one of those miserable dreams again and yesterday I almost got run over by a car,” Karla finally managed to say between sobs. She told Lena of her near-accident, her inability to deal with one of her paintings, the nightmare. “It all just brought it back again. I’m lonely; Anna died, I have no family left, and …” She burst into tears again.
     “Honey, I know, it’s hard. But why don’t you come to us when you feel bad? You know, you always have family here. You’re not alone.”
     “Thanks, Lena. I know. It’s just one of those days.”
     “Talk about family. Have you heard from your father lately?” Lena gently brushed a strand of hair out of Karla’s face.
     “Not in while. It’s my turn to write. I just haven’t been up to it. I’ve run out of things to write to him about. Problem is, we haven’t seen each other in ten years and you start to lose track.”
     “I understand. Perhaps, you should plan a trip to see him.”
     “Yeah, I know. I should.” Karla wiped the tears from her face. “I’ve been busy saving my money for painting, but I guess I could stay with his family. He even offered to pay for my plane ticket. It would be great to visit Peru again.” Karla hugged Lena. “Thanks for listening to me. It does make me feel better.” She managed a weak smile and got up. “I actually came down here to get some roses for Mama’s grave.”
     “Pick as many as you want. And take one of the vases here.” Lena reached for a vase on the kitchen cabinet and handed it to Karla. “And if you’re up to it, come and help me bake this afternoon. Luigi is with the lambs and the kids are in school. I could use some help. I’m making a few loaves of braided bread. Unless you’ve painting to do?”
     “No. Baking sounds wonderful. Just what I need, to get my mind off my problems.”
     Karla walked the short distance to the cemetery. The sweet aroma of her bouquet of roses brought a smile to her face. It’s going to be a good day, she tried to convince herself.
     The river Maggia on the other side of the street roared with gusto, spilling its waters in swirls and rapids toward Lake Maggiore. The noble chestnut trees in front of the graveyard were in full bloom and their long yellowish catkins exuded a strong pungent scent. Scattered by the wind, the abundant pollen of the male blossoms covered the ground and graves with a film of fine golden dust.
     As Karla climbed the few steps to the graveyard, she brushed against an overhanging branch of a wet hazel bush that showered her with a rivulet of water. She spotted two men working on the plot next to her mother’s grave. One of them was in the process of leaving. He loaded a cart with tools and pushed it toward the exit. The man who stayed back was crouching before a freshly planted plot, wiping off what seemed to be a new gravestone. A shock of dark hair hung over his face. When Karla put down the vase with the roses on her mother’s grave, he stood up.
     They stared at each other.
     “You?” Karla asked.
     “Oh, my god, it’s the woman who jumps in front of moving cars.” A sarcastic smile teased his lips as he glared at her with his green cat eyes.
     “It’s the maniac who ignores pedestrian zones. What are you doing here?”
     “I’m your local stonemason. I put up one of those.” He brushed a strand of hair from his forehead and pointed at the newly planted stone.
     The gravestone stood out somewhat from the others. It was made of polished grey-green gneiss. The top edge, however, was left in its original unpolished shape, giving the tombstone an artistic flair. The text was carved in a simple italic font and the only decoration was a bunch of grapes chiseled into the stone.
     “That’s beautiful,” Karla said.
     “Thanks.” He pointed at the stone on her mother’s grave. “Someone close to you?”
     “My mother.”
     “Oh, sorry.” He squinted his eyes and looked at the stone more closely. “That was a long time ago; you must have lost her early.”
     “Yes, I was five when she died. A car accident.”
     “A car accident? Jesus. Seems to run in the family.”
     Karla glared at him. “I don’t think that’s funny at all. You sure have a warped sense of humor.”
     “I’m sorry, that was stupid. I didn’t mean it that way. It just struck me as a strange coincidence. I almost ran you over and now … I apologize. And I’m sorry I yelled at you yesterday. I was wrong. I was driving too fast.” He stretched out his arm.
     Still angry, Karla hesitated. But seeing his imploring look, she gave in and shook his hand. It was large, but in spite of the rough work his palm felt soft. “It was my fault too. I should’ve been more careful,” she admitted.
     She was struck again by the unusual color of his intense green eyes. They changed from verdigris to shades of blue according to the way the sun touched his face. He was handsome, in a rough kind of way. I’d like to paint him. Realizing she was staring at him, she quickly averted her gaze. A breeze kicked up, buffeting the leaves in the trees and tugging at her hair.
     “Look, we started out all wrong. Can we just forget about yesterday? And go out for coffee or a movie or dinner or something? My treat.”
     “You sure move fast. Yesterday, you called me an airhead and now you ask me out?”
     He gave a guttural laugh. “Well, yesterday was yesterday. I’m glad I didn’t run you over, a beautiful girl like you. By the way, I’m Andreas.”
     “Karla.”
     “So, what do you say?”
     “I don’t know. I’m really busy this week. I’m preparing for an arts exhibition on Friday, but if you’re interested, here is an announcement.” Karla pulled a card out of her purse and handed it to him.
     “Oh, that’s right; you’re an artist. Great, I love paintings. Had to do quite a bit of drawing as part of my training.” He studied the card that showed a couple of Karla’s paintings. “Interesting work.”
     Karla liked the sound of his voice, deep and throaty, even a little tender, now that he wasn’t yelling or making sarcastic remarks. “So what do you do aside from making tombstones?”
     “All kinds of stone work but also some metal sculptures. I just can’t make enough money with that kind of stuff yet. So it’s mainly tombstones for a living. Talk about making a living, I better get back to work. I have to plant a few more of these at another cemetery.” He pointed at the gravestone. “Three people died the same week.”
     “Oh? Well, you should be pleased.” Karla chuckled.
     He raised an eyebrow. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
     “Good business for you. More tombstones.”
     “And I’m supposed to be the one with the warped sense of humor, huh?” He gave a snort and laughed, then picked up the rag with which he had wiped off the gravestone and stuffed it into the back pocket of his tattered jeans. As they walked toward the exit, Karla noticed his beat-up Fiat parked on the other side of the road.
     “Okay, see you Friday.” He lightly touched her arm.
     Karla nodded. “Drive carefully. Don’t run over any pedestrians,” she called after him.
     He turned around and opened his mouth to say something, then changed his mind, shook his head and grinned. He waved at her as he got into the car. The engine started right away this time.
     Karla looked after him as he drove away. He must have had his muffler fixed.

Lena’s rustic kitchen looked like a bakery. The heavy cherry wood table was covered with pans of dough and a thin layer of flour. On the walls hung black iron pots and the typical copper bowls and pots popular in the south of Switzerland. Lena was busy kneading the dough for braided bread.
     “It smells delicious.” Karla inhaled the warm yeasty scent.
     “Cut yourself some. I made this one earlier.” Lena pointed at one of the finished loaves. “There is butter and jam over there, and I just made fresh coffee.”
     “You don’t have to tell me twice.” Karla cut a thick slice of the freshly baked honey-colored loaf. The inside was buttery yellow and soft and Karla gave a sigh of pleasure as she bit into a piece slathered with Lena’s homemade blackberry jam. “Heavenly.”
     Lena gave her a cursory glance while kneading the dough vigorously, occasionally slapping it onto the table to make it smooth and springy. “You seem to be feeling better.”
     “Yeah, I am.” Karla licked a drop of jam from her finger, then put on one of Lena’s aprons. She picked up a slab of dough and began to knead it. “Guess what? I ran into the guy who almost hit me with his car yesterday.”
     “You’re kidding? Where?” Lena divided her piece of dough into three equal parts and began to braid them.
     “At the cemetery. He was putting up a gravestone. He’s a stonemason. His name is Andreas.”
     “Andreas O’Reilly?” Lena looked up, then dipped her hands into the flour and continued to pull and punch the dough.
     “I don’t know his last name. You know him?” Karla stopped kneading and stared at Lena.
     “Yes. He made a few gravestones for our cemetery. In fact, he carved my grandmother’s stone a couple of years ago. He does beautiful work. So he is the guy who almost hit you? Strange. He doesn’t seem like the careless-driver type.”
     “I think we were both at fault. At first, I thought he was a real jerk, but today he seemed more pleasant. What do you know about him?”
     “Not that much, just the little bit he told me or I heard about him. Some problems with his family, I don’t know any details. He was raised by his aunt and uncle. He’s quite an accomplished sculptor, considering how young he is. He was hired to put up some stone sculptures in the area.”
     “He said he was coming to the opening on Friday. He asked me out,” Karla said.
     “You must have made quite an impression on him.” Lena chuckled.
     “I don’t know.” Karla stopped kneading again and glanced out the window. “I’ve had more than my share of questionable dates. I’m not too eager to get involved with anybody. I don’t have much luck with men. Anyway, we’ll see if he shows up on Friday.”
     “You’re not paying attention, Karla. Come on, let me finish.” Lena smiled and shook her head. She grabbed the hunk of dough that Karla had been working on. “Why don’t you apply the egg wash instead?”
     “Sorry, Lena, I’m not much help today.” Karla sighed. She removed the towels from the loaves, which had risen to full size. She gently poked one of the plump, smooth braids with her finger, then picked up a baking brush, dipped it into the mixture of water and egg, and glazed the tops of the breads with even generous strokes.
     “Nice job.” Lena pointed at the loaves Karla had just finished. “You definitely have more talent handling a brush than kneading dough.” There was a cracking sound outside. Lena looked up. “Another thunderstorm?”
     Karla watched through the window as the wind carried off a small branch of the apple tree behind the house. She felt the familiar pressure in her head. “No, not a thunderstorm. The wind is changing.”

The other day, I read a post on one of the blogs I follow, which happened to be a very critical and quite negative review of one of my favorite novels, The Portrait of the Artist as a Young Man by James Joyce. I studied Joyce back at the University of Zurich and at the University of California in San Diego. I took seminars with a well-known Joyce scholar back in Zurich by the name of Friedrich Senn. His enthusiasm about Joyce as a writer was contagious and I began to like his admittedly difficult and often obscure writing. I thoroughly enjoyed his short stories The Dubliners and his early novel The Portrait of the Artist. At the same time, I have to admit that I didn’t make it past page 50 of Ulysses and kind of skipped Finnegan’s Wake. He lost me there but in spite of that, I admire his ingenuity and his challenging work.

So, when Stuart Allison of the blog “must mutter” (a wonderful blog by the way!) called his work “puerile, uninteresting drivel,” I had to protest and tell him he was full of youknowwhat (of course, I didn’t put it that way, after all, we are polite people). Anyway, this lead to an interesting exchange of ideas and although we didn’t agree on Joyce and art in general, we came to a point where we could agree to disagree. This discussion, however, raised a question which is really the point of my blog post.

There seem to be two major camps in literature: the group of the “academic” authors and the “contemporary genre” writers (for lack of a better expression). The academics are the ones we study in college, the ones that have received the stamp of approval by the scholars and professors of literature. They usually consist of the classics and of the writers which have been considered “experimental” but worthy of acceptance into the High Art of Literature. Interestingly enough, those radicals of the literary world were often condemned, banned, and ridiculed by the very “literary intelligentsia” which later touted them as geniuses (Joyce is just one good example).

I received my literary education in academia and went even on to the PhD program in comparative literature (English, German, and French). Halfway through my studies, events in my personal life and the realization that I wasn’t really made for academia, made me abandon the program. Many years later, after an extended detour from the study of literature via a degree in computer science (don’t ask me why, long story), to my own translation work, I began to write myself, first poetry and later novels. I published my debut novel this year as an independent author with my own micro publishing company, Bookworm Press, on Amazon and Smashwords.

My background in academia and my experience as a midlist independent author brought me in touch with both camps I mentioned earlier, the “traditional academics and experimental authors” and the “contemporary, genre-oriented authors,” and I noticed for the first time the hostile attitude that seemed to exist between those two groups. It’s almost as bad as the adversity between the traditional large publishing empires and the newly developing independent publishing ventures. Hatred galore. But why?

Why, in god’s name can’t we all get along? An author friend of mine once said we should burn the books of authors such as Joyce, Faulkner, and the likes, those who don’t have plot and a traditional sequence of events. On the other side of the isle is the professor or language poet who sneers at the “amateurs” out there who enjoy plot- and content- or character-driven literature or the so-called Trivialliteratur (trivial literature), the German word for entertaining, easily accessible prose.

There are times when I enjoy a difficult book from an author who experiments with language, one you have to read several times to get something out of it, one that doesn’t answer all the questions but asks questions (linguistic, social, political questions and questions of content), one that keeps language and literature alive and changing. It’s demanding, it makes you think and ponder, it may leave you dissatisfied and questioning in the end. What’s wrong with that? I just read an article in a Swiss newspaper (I’m in my original home country at the time) about a German author by the name of Reinhard Jirgl who received the Büchner prize, the coveted literary award for German literature. I have never read anything of his but he seems to be an extremely inventive author, one that people who love plot would probably hate. When the interviewer pointed out to him that his books are “difficult,” he shook his head and said: “Not difficult but TIME CONSUMING.”

That made me realize why many people shun such books. We don’t seem to have the time or the willingness to invest the time to dig into a difficult book, one that doesn’t slap us in the face on the first page, or even with the first sentence. We want instant gratification. By “we” I mean the everyday reader, the man or woman who comes home in the evening after a day of work, tired. We don’t want to think anymore but would rather watch TV or, if we read a book, then it should be one that doesn’t require a lot of “tiresome thinking,” or, even worse, one for which we have to grab a dictionary to make some kind of sense out of it. That’s understandable.

However, there are people who read and enjoy such stuff. They may be students or teachers of literature, professors, academics, or even everyday readers such as myself who once in a while like the challenge. So, why should we deprive those people of the books they like? Another friend who complained about some of the “plotless” garbage also mentioned that such books only serve to support jobs at the university level. Pray tell, what’s wrong with that? Not everybody studies literature at the university and goes on to teach it, but those who do provide a service. They support literature, they organize readings for authors, they help students enjoy a wide variety of books AND they pay taxes. That in defense of academia. And those among them, who categorically sneer at accessible literature, can sneer themselves into oblivion, as far as I am concerned. There are narrow-minded people in all walks of society.

I enjoy many types of literature. I devoured Harry Potter, I love a good mystery, I keep discovering interesting paranormal books, thrillers, even romances, if they are well written. But at the same time, I also love books by Virginia Woolf, Faulkner, Joyce, etc. etc. It depends on my mood and my state of mind.

I myself write books which have plot and are accessible because that’s what I naturally gravitate toward. When I first began to write, I tried to imitate the stream-of-consciousness novels written by Virginia Woolf, another one of my favorite authors. I failed miserably. Don’t think those books don’t have structure and order, they definitely do. And that kind of order is a lot more difficult to create than a general plot with a traditional beginning, a middle, and an end.

I’m in favor of democracy in literature, a buzz word of all those independent authors (including myself) who now toss their work into the world in form of ebooks and print-on-demand paperbacks and all that at a reasonable price. That’s great; I welcome it. But we don’t have to kill the other camp. They do their job. We can learn from each other. But that means we need to be a little less arrogant and a little more open-minded, on both sides of the isle, so to speak.

And I respect Stuart Allison, who tore Joyce apart, because he did it in an intelligent, thoughtful way. I don’t agree with him but the point is, it got a discussion started. The two camps (and I counted myself to the defending camp of Joyce in this instance) actually discussed opposing views rather than just ignore or sneer at each other. And, in addition, the discussion led me to a new author, a new blog, and it gave me the opportunity to be interviewed by him in December.

Democracy only works when people are sophisticated and open-minded enough to have their own point of view but still accept diversity. And by all means, defend what you believe in but don’t kill or burn the other side!

Happy Reading, Happy Halloween, and Happy End of the Year!

PS: In case you are interested in reading Stuart’s and my exchange about James Joyce, here is the link.