IT’S BEEN A MILD WINTER so far here in northern Michigan. We’re in “deep winter,” about midway between the fall and spring equinoxes, when we usually have temperatures in the teens and lower 20s and there should be a couple feet of snow on the ground. In fits of whimsy I’ve sometimes imagined (in The Windward Shore, for example) that this is a time when time slows, even stops.

But not this year. The ground is nearly bare now and the temperature has been 10 degrees above normal most days and nights since the middle of January. And time, alas, is hurtling along at its usual pace. We’ve been robbed.

No need to go into much detail, but I was happy to see 2019 end. We lost my dad in August, after a long illness, but I was fortunate to be at his side in the final months and weeks. That loss coupled with a flurry of lesser misfortunes (funny how they pile on like that) turned the year into an extended brush fire. My writing work got pushed aside, but I learned some new tricks with extinguishers and garden hoses.

The only significant work I did all year was consulting with other writers and editing their books. It was pure pleasure. I’ve always known that editing utilizes a different part of the brain than composing, but it turns out it works even when the creative function shuts down. I’d like to do more of it this year, so if you have a manuscript that needs doctoring, or you’d like some advice on how to jump-start a stalled project or get a finished one published, or you just need an objective reader who can tell you if you’re on the right track, I’m available and ready to work. And if you’re ready to take the leap into self-publishing, Gail is happily at work on custom book design and production. She has 30 years experience designing books in every format for clients ranging from one-book authors to the major New York publishers. Contact me at jcdennis@charter.net and we can talk.

Grief, as you probably know, is strange. During the six months before and after my dad’s death, reading failed me. I couldn’t concentrate; my eyes kept sliding off the page. Not only did I have writer’s block, I had reader’s block. It’s the first time I can remember that happening. Always before when I opened a book or magazine I could count on being carried away. Then, around January 1, whatever was broken healed enough to send me on a reading binge.

It began with the astonishing novel Lincoln in the Bardo by George Saunders. I’ve admired Saunders’ short fiction since his inaugural collection 20 or so years ago (CivilWarLand in Bad Decline), but I wasn’t prepared for this, his first novel. It’s like nothing I’ve ever read, and I’ve studied the modernists, postmodernists, and various pseudo- meta- and post-post-modernists my entire reading life. Saunders’ novel is like no other I’ve read. It’s deeply imagined, constantly surprising, powerful, heartbreaking, and beautiful. I finished it sobbing. Couldn’t stop thinking about for days, so I sat down and read it again. And I liked it even better the second time.

Another novel I read with great pleasure is Annie Proulx’s latest, Barkskins. It’s ambitious: A 700-page multi-generational saga of the North American fur and timber industries from the 17th through the 20th centuries. It works on many levels: a carefully researched history of resource exploitation. An expose of injustices against Native Americans. A story of family dynamics and the way good and bad decisions reverberate through the generations. It’s a smart and complex page-turner. And of course, being Proulx, the writing is muscular, precise, and vivid.

I’ve never been much of a fan of crime fiction but this winter I’ve decided to give it a go. My friend Jim Ekdahl in L’Anse, where they do some serious winter reading) suggested I give Scandinavian-noir another try (I was lukewarm about the Girl With the Dragon Tattoo series; those Swedes sure drink a lot of coffee), so I’ve been reading Jo Nesbo’s Harry Hole novels. I’m up to #4 in the series, and have enjoyed them well enough to keep going. Nesbo constructs believable, compelling plots populated by strong characters. I’ll probably stick with him for a few more books, at least.

I was more taken by the disturbingly believable novel about police corruption in New York City, The Force by Don Winslow. His characters are three-dimensional, the story is as complex and messy as life itself, and the writing is tight. I couldn’t put it down. I especially enjoyed the stories the cops told one another. For this son and brother-in-law of cops they rang true and were sometimes laugh-out-loud funny.

A chance encounter at the new Peninsula Library carried me away to the Missouri Ozarks. Winter’s Bone by Daniel Woodrell had me by the throat with the first sentence and didn’t let go until the last word. Superb story-telling, luscious prose, and original and unforgettable characters make this a close second to Lincoln in the Bardo as my favorite read of the last year. At the center of the story is one the most original female protagonists in American literature. Jennifer Lawrence received acclaim for playing the role in the movie version, which I haven’t seen. I know she’s a fine actress, but I’d be surprised if she did justice to the character and personality of Ree Dolly. I doubt anybody could. Next up for me will be all of Woodrell’s novels.

Okay, this has gotten out of hand. I’m like a guy stranded on a tropical island for a year who is suddenly rescued: Can’t shut him up. So I’ll end with some other peoples’ words that helped during the past year:

“There is so much Everything/that Nothing is hidden quite nicely.” —Wislawa Szymborska, from her poem “Reality Demands”

“Art is how we keep the truth from destroying us.” —Nietzsche

“Whatever book or sentence will bear to be read twice, we may be sure was thought twice.—Thoreau, Journals

“The poet must not avert his eyes.” —Werner Herzog (Brick interview, Winter 2009)

“Lassitude in the heart puts lassitude on the page.” —Mary Oliver, Long Life

“…and he said it was good that God kept the truths of life from the young as they were starting out or else they’d have no heart to start at all.” —Cormac McCarthy, All the Pretty Horses

“Enough of this complaining and groaning and ape-like chatter.” —Marcus Aurelius, Meditations

“One should put away hope, and concentrate on joy.” —Spinoza

The Peninsula Township Library