One of the many great things about writing books is that it gives me a professional excuse to read.  Reading is much easier than writing, and I’ve always considered an hour lost in a book as one of life’s great luxuries.

I’ve also tried to justify it as a sleep-aid, but that must be averaged out with the many nights a good story has kept me up past my usual bedtime.  So it was last week with “The Sea and the Silence,” Peter Cunningham’s just-published novel about the life of an Irish woman who comes of age during the 1940’s.

I was initially drawn to the book by the lovely cover.  Sparse and lovely, not overdone or flashy like most covers these days.  And who can resist a woman eyeing a lighthouse in the distance?

The next attraction was the word “sea” in the title. Now I’ve been suckered before into buying books by some casual reference to ocean and coast, only to be disappointed by a complete lack of watery atmosphere inside.  In “The Sea and the Silence,” those two elements form a misty ever-present background, achieving importance by remaining mostly out of reach.

I’m also a sucker for historical novels, but I’ve learned that fictionalized history alone is not enough to keep me reading; the story must stand on its own. Cunningham’s lean prose drew me into Iz’s world and showed me a newly independent Ireland.  My ignorance of Irish politics made it possible to take the story as it came, with no preconceived historical notions.  And Iz provided plenty of perspective anyway, since these pages were written on her deathbed.

I won’t spoil the plot for you; this one has to be digested page by page to be completely appreciated. But I will tell you that the seemingly casual structure (a solicitor reading pages left behind after death) brings a new depth to the story.  Without seeming to interfere at all, Cunningham allows us to see only what is necessary to move the story forward.  We get tempting glimpses of the surprising conclusion that tease but never quite satisfy.

I often find endings disappointing, for several reasons.  First and foremost, I seldom want to let go of a character after sharing such intimacies for 250 pages.  Beyond that, a satisfying conclusion that is neither trite nor predictable requires great skill and a gentle touch.  Cunningham has created a ending that felt very natural and satisfied my curiosity, without tying up all the ends too neatly.

The author lives in a coastal Irish town on which the fictional town of Monument is based.  He even (yes!) provides a map that, rather surprisingly, does not reference the lighthouse where much of the book takes place. But if I weren’t in the process of deciding what to include in the frontmatter of my own book, I wouldn’t have even noticed that omission. Through the ears of Iz, I have already heard the pulse of waves beating against a shore that will be so very hard for her to leave.

Obviously I would recommend this book to anyone interested in 20th century Ireland and anyone who loves the coast. I would further encourage those who appreciate the details and structure that together build a satisfying novel to dive into the world of Iz.  She and her creator, Peter Cunningham, will not disappoint.

It’s not often that my book life and my sailing life overlap, but it happened last week.

Last Friday, I submitted a file (only ten minutes late) that represented almost a year of hard work.  Cape Cod Surprise, complete with layout and cover art, has been sent off to meet the sharp eyes of my publisher and editor at GemmaMedia. [Insert appropriate “cheer” word here, along with much overdone punctuation.]

Writing a sequel requires all the same effort as the original book.  1. Dream up enough story line to start writing.  2. Figure out what the REAL story line is. 3. Edit. 4. Re-edit, to make all the little pieces fit the big picture.  5. Ask “is it as good as it can be” over and over, until the answer is “yes.”

In addition, the sequel required a little extra effort.  Because this time, I knew I was writing for publication—not just to brighten the eyes of my nephew at Christmas.  This time, I was on a deadline.  And it had to be even better than “good as it can be.” Better than the first book.   I believe it is… longer, richer—yes, better.  I can only hope my authorly bias is not blinding me to the faults of my latest creation.  I can only hope you the readers will love it too.

I also checked off an important sailing goal last week.  Kim Couranz and I won the Snipe Women’s Nationals in Jacksonville, FL.  This is the fifth time we’ve won this event (though only our third as a team), so that victory alone isn’t necessarily a goal as worthy of shout-out as shipping off a manuscript.  It’s where that regatta victory will lead us that counts: we’re now qualified for the Snipe Western Hemisphere and Orient Championship in September, an international regatta that draws together the best sailors in the class.  (And for those who keep score by gender, we are likely to be one of the few women’s teams at the event.)

I’ve written before about the three hats a writer must wear as she works through a project.  I’ve also written about the many definitions of success in this brave new world of publishing.  For all these reasons and many more, I made sure to celebrate last week’s writing milestone. There are so few finish line tapes across the road to publishing that when we hit one, it’s critical to raise a glass and breathe in the heady air of “I did it!”  Because all too soon my manuscript will be back for edits, like a teenager who returns from college with fresh opinions based on his contact with others.

Kim and I should’ve celebrated our regatta win with a raised glass too.  Instead we jumped in the van to drive the 13 hours back to Annapolis Sunday night, so she could show up for work the next day.

And it didn’t feel so important to consciously celebrate a finite victory like winning a regatta. It’s so much more obvious that we achieved our goal when there is a printed scoreline of firsts (what we sailors call “bullets”).

Authors have no such scoreline; instead we single out the good reviews and positive feedback, building a moat around our egos to protect against the less pleasant comments.  There are always more books that could be sold, more readers that could be touched, more Amazon reviews that could be written.

Besides, Kim and I will be celebrating all summer, as we push to improve our skills toward meeting our new goal (a respectable finish at the Westerns). Because that’s what self-motivated people do: as soon as we achieve one goal, we look for the next.

But for a few days, while my new book is out of my hands being edited by someone else, I will savor last week’s writing victory.  Because whether or not this sequel is actually as good as I think it is, I’ve now answered once and for all one of my great internal doubts:

Can she do it again?

Yes, she can!

And that’s a victory worth celebrating.

Hurry—only three shopping days left to find those final presents for family, friends, and the postman! Looking for that WOW gift, the one guaranteed to entertain long after the wrapping is forgotten, that still fits into your budget and under the tree?

Well look no further.  Join me in making 2009 the Christmas of Books.

Over the past year I’ve spent a lot of time in bookstores, primarily for signings, but also for a few luxurious hours of selfish browsing.  I love the illusive scent of reading—paper, ink and imagination all bound together in a unique bundle of comfort and joy.  What could be a better gift?

Fortunately, everyone in my family reads.  So I’m not just giving what I would like to receive, I’m sharing the wealth.  Having unread books on the bedside shelf is like having money in the bank—pure potential.

The postman?  I’ve never asked if he likes books.  All I know is he rides a Harley.

I’ve met some great authors this year, so I’m also playing literary matchmaker.  Chris Abouzeid’s “Anatopsis,” a young adult fantasy, will go to nephews and nieces.  My publisher GemmaMedia just came out with a lovely memoir called “Yarn,” which I’m hoping my ever-knitting mother will enjoy.  My youngest niece (the only one still enjoying colorful illustrations) will get to test her rhyming and multiplication skills with “Math Attack.”  (It’s even autographed, since I shared a table with author Joan Horton at a recent booksigning.)  And two of my favorite men will unwrap—hopefully simultaneously—“Spanish Castle to White Night,” a coffee table book about racing sailboats around the world with excellent text by Mark Chisnell.

Of course, picking out books for others can be a challenge, like trying to imagine what one of my characters would have for breakfast—except that these folks all talk back.  But it’s so much more personal than a gift card.  And there’s nothing more satisfying than introducing someone to just the right story.

Books as presents also have a valuable fringe benefit.  By spending my gift dollars at the independent bookstores that have helped to support me this year, I’m rewarding people in the book industry who still think of books as companions—not just as a part of their bottom line.

As for the postman, I think he’ll get a copy of my own book, “Oliver’s Surprise.”  Maybe I’ll spot him on his Harley next spring, sneaking a peak downward to read about a boy, a schooner, and a bump on the head.