One of the upsides to the coronavirus pandemic—they are few and far between—is the way it shifted book tours online, even for the more successful authors. A prime example is Zadie Smith, someone you will hear about often in this newsletter, if I have anything to do with it (and I do).
When her short collection Intimations* released in the summer of 2020, she held a handful of online conversations to promote the book. During one, she shared how the essays in her book were never meant to see the light of day, but coalesced after reading the writings of Marcus Aurelius. This was during the early days of lockdowns and quarantines, and she found herself captured by a thought.
Aurelius wrote during a time before the printing press; before the average person had achieved literacy, let alone owned a personal library; before book blurbs and critical reviews and Pulitzer prizes and platform building. In other words, he wrote with an awareness that his words were for no one but himself, which for Smith meant he was telling the truth. It also led to what became Intimations.
I thought have I ever written in a way that is for no one? That I don't even have the imagining of a reader or audience. What would it be like to write like that? And that's really what I sat down to do. I really when I started had no conception of publishing; I just thought in a very childish way if this is going to be the end of the world why don't I just write down the truth, the whole truth as it strikes me, and see how it feels to do that? And that was very liberating and very cathartic.
Not to sound overly dramatic—but here we go anyway—that conversation is why you’re reading this now. For the past few years, I’ve always written with an audience in mind, finagling this phrase or that line to land exactly how I intend, to conjure this emotion or spark that objection. There’s value in that kind of thinking, but it left me feeling dried up, no longer enjoying the craft I embraced with so much energy and zeal before.
Now, before you say anything, I know. I’m still technically writing for someone, namely, you. But if you don’t like what I share, no harm no foul. This isn’t about building an audience. It’s my excuse to write about books, which is one of my favorite things to do.
So thanks for joining me. I hope you find a new book or essay that moves you and maybe even discover some truth from time to time.
Welcome to The Foreword.
December Reads
With 2021 officially behind us, I’ll kick off this section by sharing my ten favorite reads of the year, as well as my thread on ten more books published this year worth checking out. And now, on to your regular programming.
Here are my highlights for December:
The Hobbit by J.R.R. Tolkien—My first exposure to Middle Earth came twenty years ago, sitting in a theater watching The Fellowship of the Ring in its opening week. Since then, the Christmas season never feels complete without a healthy dose of Tolkien. And this year, I leveled up the experience by listening to the audiobook version, narrated by Andy Serkis, who voiced Smeagol/Gollum in the films. Spoiler alert: it’s incredible. Here’s a taste. (He also narrated The Lord of the Rings in all-new versions that published late last year.)
These Silent Woods by Kimi Cunningham Grant—Set in the remote mountains of Appalachia, a father raises his eight-year-old daughter off the grid, relying on what the land provides and supplies that arrive from a friend once a year. While this story was not at all what I expected, I found it a moving character exploration and one of the more unsuspecting illustrations of grace I’ve read. It was also fun reading a book from a former a Fathom magazine contributor that’s getting a lot of attention.
The Husbands by Chandler Baker—When I read Baker’s 2019 debut, Whisper Network, I was hooked for two reasons: 1) the cleverness of her writing and 2) the fact that it was set in my current hometown, Dallas, Texas. (She’s also an alum of my alma mater, UT-Austin. Hook ’em!) She continues the Texas trend with The Husbands, which is set in Austin and follows a successful, career-driven mother feeling the burden of maintaining workplace expectations while bearing the brunt of motherhood. When she and her husband find the perfect new home in a desirable location, they begin ingratiating themselves into the neighborhood community, where the women aren’t strung out and barely keeping things together and the husbands train an attentive eye on domestic duties. Could this community have discovered the recipe to a balanced life? Or is it too good to be true?
January’s Most Anticipated
Greenwich Park by Katherine Faulkner—I love a good thriller, and when I saw Catherine Steadman recommend this title, it instantly made my list. Mother-to-be Helen has it all—a beautiful home, a perfect marriage, and a baby on board. But all of that is threatened when she meets Rachel, a fellow mother-to-be, who doesn’t play by the rules and appears to know more about Helen and her past than any stranger has a right to.
The Stars Are Not Yet Bells by Hannah Lillith Assadi—An aging woman on the brink of Alzheimer’s reflects on the life she built on Lyra, a small island off the coast of Georgia visited by unexplained blue lights. The publisher blurbs it as a novel that “pulls us into a story of the tantalizing, faithless relationship between ourselves and the lives and souls we leave behind.”
Thank You, Mr. Nixon by Gish Jen—I’ve yet to discover a taste for short-story collections, but I enjoyed Jen’s 2020 novel, The Resisters, too much not to give this one a try. Her eleven interwoven stories trace the formative effects of China’s Open Door Policy, which allowed foreign business to set up within its borders in 1978 and transformed the global economy as we know it. More importantly, it reshaped the lives of everyday citizens, who assume the spotlight in Jen’s stories.
Reading Roundup
Joan Didion and the Opposite of Magical Thinking—I warned you I’d be pushing Zadie Smith often, and here is your first dose. Smith eulogizes the great Joan Didion in her trademark style of critical analysis blended with a tone both humanizing and intimate.
Emily St. John Mandel Is Nobody’s Prophet—When Mandel published Station Eleven in 2014, a novel about a virulent strain of flu that wipes out the majority of the world’s population, it immediately met with critical acclaim. Many called it ambitious, elegant, and urgent, but few labeled it prescient. In this interview, she reflects on how the book has taken on a new identity in light of the coronavirus pandemic and what she has learned as a result.
Millions of Followers? For Book Sales, ‘It’s Unreliable.’—It turns out, a huge social media platform doesn’t always translate into comparable book sales, and this article surveys a number of examples to prove the point. So if you’ve ever wanted to pitch a book but worried about your audience, shoot your shot. Those publishing standards aren’t as set in stone as they seem.
Clint Smith Performs an Excerpt from How the Word Is Passed—If you browsed my list of favorite books from 2021, you’ll see Clint Smith’s was the first in line. It’s an elegant reckoning with our country’s remembrance of the story of slavery that has permeated the majority of its existence. He narrates the audiobook version of How the Word Is Passed, which makes it an even better listen, in my opinion. This excerpt will show you why.
Afterword
Each month, I want to leave you with a final thought to enliven your reading experience, and I can’t think of a better way to start than by telling you about Libro.fm. If you’re a fan of audiobooks and have been considering a switch from Audible (or maybe you’re wondering why one would even consider switching from Audible?), check out Libro.fm.
It’s the same price as Audible with nearly an identical library of options, but with one huge difference: each book purchased contributes to a local independent bookstore of your choice, meaning your audiobook addiction can directly support your local community. I’ve been a subscriber for a few years now and can’t speak highly enough of this company. So make the switch today.