A placid barefoot day drifting south with the ebb toward the Jamestown Bridge—what could be better?

Last week I read Elizabeth Berg’s “Dream When You’re Feeling Blue,” also fiction and also full of engaging characters. But 1940’s Chicago made me shiver, not sweat. And Berg’s characters asked tougher questions about war, women’s rights, sacrifice, and the strength of family ties. I couldn’t have possibly plowed through this book in one day; it needed several nights of digestive thought.

And that’s what I love about reading: we can choose our preferred climate, century, and depth of engagement. If we hit it right (as I did yesterday), stories enrich our solitude and take us outside our own lives. If we hit it wrong—well, we can always pick up something else. That’s why books on the nightstand are as valuable as money in the bank.

Two weeks ago I raced Snipes with a skipper who quietly stated that he wanted to rip out the heart of every other competitor on the race course. Of course on shore he loaned tools, boats, and brute strength even before he was asked, offering that unique mix of cooperative competitiveness I so love about small boat racing. Wanting to win should encourage us to help our competitors improve;  the better they are, the more they challenge us to sail our best.

Five days later, I found myself alone in the middle of Narragansett Bay, drifting south with the ebb tide. I spent the leisurely cruise consciously savoring the first-sail-of-the-season, the gleaming varnish, the early shimmer of seabreeze—and the rare sunshine. I felt lucky to be on the water, and quite content—even with a complete absence of competition.

In less than a week, I traveled from one end of the competitive spectrum to the other—all without setting foot in a boat with an engine. No matter what my psyche demands—solitude, heart-ripping competition, or something in between—I can find it on the water.

So here’s another place where books meet boats—they each provide a seemingly endless variety of experience. I can escape for a day or a week, to a harbor down under or a heartland city. Best of all, I can travel light—my imagination will be all the baggage I need.

As a writer, I try to create a few new stories a year. Let me tell you, reading is a lot easier. So for all of us readers, it’s a good thing there are so many talented authors out there.

As my final 2010 blog present to you, here’s my list of recommended reads—to give to yourself, or to someone else.

And no matter what format you consume fiction in these days, I urge you to support your local independent bookstore this holiday.  That’s the only way to help assure it will still be there for you in 2011, and beyond!

Lipstick in Afghanistan (Roberta Gately)
Roberta is one of my writing friends so I may not be totally subjective on this one. But anyone interested in Afghanistan will learn something from this book, a story about an American nurse whose year in Bamiyan helping the Afghans changes her forever. The best crowd pleaser I read in 2010.
Read my review, Loving Lipstick

The Forgotten Garden (Kate Morton)
Quite simply the best book I read this year. Three generations of women tell an interlocking story about their past, which turns out to affect the present—and future. The book starts off in Morton’s home city of Brisbane, but events take all three characters to the coast of Cornwall in England. Enjoy getting lost in this one, as I did.

The Velvet Room (Zilpha Keatley Snyder)
Originally published in 1965, one of my favorite childhood reads is back in print thanks to the Author’s Guild Back In Print initiative. The story is simple, about a girl who finds a secret room that she makes her own (and eventually saves from destruction). Like most of my childhood rediscoveries, I was amazed how many details I’d forgotten about plot and scene; what I remembered (and which grabbed me all over again) is the atmosphere of safety and comfort the author creates by encircling a window seat in velvet curtains.

Diamond Ruby (Joe Wallace)
Although I’ve never met Joe Wallace, I’ve enjoyed getting to know him via word spurts of 140 characters (Twitter’s @Joe_Wallace). Diamond Ruby will be opened under two Christmas trees in my family this year, and hopefully both my nephew and niece will enjoy this story of a young girl growing up in 1930’s Brooklyn who strikes out Babe Ruth. Joe says that many male friends have complained this wasn’t realistic, but Diamond Ruby is based on a true character (Jackie Mitchell) who really did strike out Babe Ruth—shortly before the commissioner banned women from playing baseball “for their health.” Like all authors, Joe has mixed history with imagination to create a wonderful tale.

And in a seasonal toast to e-books, here are two available only on Smashwords:

Sentence of Marriage (Shayne Parkinson)
The first of a series about a young girl growing up in rural Australia in the late 1800′s.  I read this one and couldn’t wait to read the next three books.

The Wrecking Crew (Mark Chisnell)
A gripping ocean-based thriller by a well-known British sailing writer.  Great airplane read!

Other books I reviewed in 2010

The Murderer’s Daughters (Randy Susan Meyers)
An intensely dark but still hopeful novel about two sisters whose father murders their mother. This will be out in paperback in early 2011, and hopefully that edition is just as beautiful as the hardcover. Read my review

The Sea and the Silence (Peter Cunningham)
A page-turning novel (with a beautiful cover) about the life of an Irish woman who comes of age during the 1940’s. Read my review, Savouring The Sea and the Silence

The Swimming Pool (Holly LeCraw)
My “much more than just a beach read” of the year. A surprisingly intense look into a family who summers on the Cape.
Read my review, Diving into The Swimming Pool

Sea Escape (Lynne Griffin)
A fictional escape into the lives of a family trying to cope with the past through letters and memories. Read my review, Escaping to the Sea

Wishing you happy gift giving in 2010, and more time to read in 2011!

I’m lucky not only to have some great friends who are also terrific sailors, but a super-duper hubby who understands that sometimes I need to go on vacation without him to go sailing with those aforementioned great sailing friends.

When I’m really lucky, those aforementioned sailing friends don’t mind if I use some of my vacation time to head to bed early with a good book. It’s pretty decadent to ease in between the sheets without second thought of “did I move the laundry into the dryer”; “I need to remember to get in touch with the folks at the other office to make sure we’re on track on that important project”; or “must remember to get more food for the dog who depends on me.”
And I’ll admit that cozying up with a good book is somehow even a little more indulgent after a day of dinghy racing, when I’m usually a little body tired and mind numb. So that all I can focus on are the words on the page.

I’ve had a few serendipitous book choices follow me to regattas—often location or theme has intertwined with my regatta/sailing experience. Two years ago, at the same regatta in Clearwater, Florida, from which I’m writing this post, I dove into Their Eyes Were Watching God by Zora Neale Hurston. What a forceful book about a strong woman—even if she doesn’t always believe she is. The novel, published in 1937, takes place in early 20th century central and southern Florida, and tells the tale of Janie and the very different parts of her life as she is married to three very different men. But though parts of Janie evolve over her life, one thing remains steady—she believes in love and wants that to be the foundation of her marriages. Janie’s strength as she handles what is dealt her is astounding.

Much of Janie’s story is set in the Florida Everglades, and includes a riveting account of Janie and her third husband Tea Cake’s experiences in the Okechobee hurricane. To head to our next regatta in Miami, we towed the Snipe down I-75 through the Everglades. It was a challenge to look past the chain link fence cordoning the River of Grass off from the cars and trucks whizzing by, but it definitely made the trip fly by to imagine Janie and Tea Cake trying to make ends meet in that neck of the woods (or rather, subtropical wetlands).

Today we sailed three races out on the Gulf of Mexico, and the breeze increased steadily through the day. My mind is fried, and body a tad tired, so I’m off to bed now with a good book. Perhaps I’ll find a character, location, or theme that will resonate with my sailing, traveling, and camaraderie experiences this week. My guess is that I will.

Much as I’d love for my sister to be wrong (sibling rivalry never dies), I’d really appreciate someone proving this particular theory. Wouldn’t it be great to have a scientific explanation for such a universal experience? And it makes sense: when we come into the world, we assume the current rate of spin is normal. As our globe twirls faster and faster, the next generation climbs on and self-adjusts to the accelerated rate—the new normal. And so on.

I was twelve when Nancy first explained this to me, two years younger than her older daughter is now.  In those days, waiting for the next Saturday was just one step short of sheer torture. A decade later, months went by at a reasonable clip. A decade after that, seasons began to change well before they dragged into dull. Last year, even winter seemed too short. And then a few days ago I realized—hey! Where did this first tenth of the 21st century GO?

One of the many reasons I enjoy losing myself in the pages of a good novel is that time often slows down. Sure, a good action scene goes by in a flash, eyes chasing forward across words and paragraphs to make sure a favorite character survives with no lasting scars. But a great writer can also slow time to a turtle crawl, allowing us the luxury of time to smell, taste, hear, and savor the world the writer has created. (And maybe as a result, better understand the time-pressured one in which we live.)

When I get lost in my own writing I can even reverse time, turning the clock back to a world that was gone long before I was born. I sniff a distant harbor, trim the luffing sails overhead, feel the bow plunging into waves bigger than I’ve ever imagined before. Even as I edit, I luxuriate in bringing to life a scene that, up until now, existed only inside my head. Did it really happen? Well, no. But could it have happened? That’s the important question.

The non-linear aspect of creative writing adds to this time warp. In order to tell the story I know is hiding within the first draft, I have to spend more time than can really be justified to figure out the best possible word or phrase. Does it need another scene, or one less piece of dialogue?  The only justification is the end result.  So the hard work of telling the story—the actual wordcraft—reinforces the time-stretching too.

Is it any wonder that the faster our world spins, the more people discover the luxury of writing and reading?

And this, for me, is why books will continue to be valued as we rush ahead into yet another decade. Whether we choose to read on recycled paper, on a screen large or small, or on some not-yet-invented substrate, the stories we experience on the biggest screen of all—the one between our ears—allow us to adjust the passage of time to our own preference.

Even if my sister’s theory isn’t true, that will be a real comfort in the shorter and shorter decades that lie ahead.

Update:  Listen to an NPR story on this same subject.

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.