Tag Archives: novels

Where to go…From Here

Years ago, when the publisher of my first book — a YA mystery — asked me what name I wanted to write under, I immediately thought that my nickname — Libby — would be the best way to communicate the fun spirit of the book, and, since most folks knew me as Libby Sternberg…it was a natural pick. FromHere

Then, when my first humorous women’s fiction book was bought by Harlequin, my editor asked the same question: What name to write under? I nixed Libby Sternberg because I didn’t want my YA fans (both of them – ahem) coming to my adult material thinking it would be the same type of read. So I settled on Libby Malin. But then later, I did write some serious adult fiction under Libby Sternberg, wanting to distinguish it from my lighter adult fare. Clear…as mud? 🙂

But the name I’d always really wanted to write under was Elizabeth Malin, not the nickname Libby. You see, I started in the artistic world as a classical singer. Trained at Peabody Conservatory, I sang under the name Elizabeth Malin, and I have a box full of old programs and mementos of my singing days with that name printed on them. Elizabeth Malin has always felt like my artistic persona.

So, here I am, some ten or so books later, and I’ve decided to start afresh as the author Elizabeth Malin, at least for my more serious adult fiction. To that end, I’m releasing a collection of three short stories, to be followed by a full-length novel.

The short story collection is appropriately titled From Here– also the name of the first story in the group — to indicate the theme of the stories. They each deal with characters deciding what to do “from here.” Where do they go? How do they deal with large and small challenges? How do they start over — if they do?

Here’s a sample of each story:

“From Here” — the tale of a semi-retired opera singer reminiscing about his life and his now-deceased mentor. Here he recalls the final concert, a benefit program, by his mentor, Frank:

And then, when they’re still clapping, when they’re wanting it so bad they’ll do anything to hear it, he marches on stage and thanks everybody and tells them to get out their wallets and write checks. And he waited! He waited until they started doing it. And then when they’re as still as school kids waiting for the teacher, he sings it, Nessun Dorma, his voice oozing out into that hall like honey, coating everybody’s heart and making you warm and peaceful, like you’ve just gotten a toe in heaven and if you’re real quiet, they’ll let you stay.

I was moved, standing in the wings. Couldn’t stop the tears even though I’d heard it a thousand times, sung by the best, too. Frank’s singing had something that ripped you open.

“The Diva and the Drug Addict” – the story of two very different characters (hence the title!) thrown together in a halfway house retreat after various therapies. Here each of them settles into a week of quiet rest in the country, reflecting on their past…

Debbi had told them of a nearby walking path, and she’d availed herself of it each morning, cheered almost to the point of weeping by the site of shy dogwoods bursting into bloom under the canopy of lime-green leaves, trees about to burst into full leafy bud, now sheer lace above her head letting in the unyielding sunshine that pinked her face….

…He remembered feeling like this once before. In eighth grade, just as spring had warmed the countryside, he and some friends had foolishly gone swimming early in a muddy creek. He’d jumped in, knees to his chest, first leaping high into the air—and landed in shallow water on a buried log, breaking his shin bone. Lordy, that had hurt…

There’d been only a couple months of classes left, and that had been an easy year for him…He’d felt…redeemed, and he remembered thinking all these Great Thoughts about what he was going to do, how he’d be a better person after this, how lucky he was, how life was good. The honeysuckle moments of life, his mother had called them. Holy Saturday, the good kind of waiting.

“Russian Tropics” — a refugee from Bolshevik Russia lands in Florida, and fifteen years later works as a maid in the estate of a kind, debonair gentleman who’s taken an interest in her. Before finding that safe haven, though, she encounters another refugee to whom she tells her story:

She liked Ludmilla so much that she confessed to her one day her royal background and her desire to return home for her parents. She confided her hope that her parents still lived and prospered, they with their important skills, they would surely be necessary in the new Russia.

And instead of sympathy, she received…cold shock. “You!” Ludmilla said, pointing a shaking finger at her. “You, all of you! You killed my Ivan, my Dmitri, my Sasha!” she cried, rattling off names she’d never mentioned before. Names, Alexia discovered as Ludmilla rambled on, of the girl’s brothers and father and beloved fiancé. They’d been killed by the Tsar’s soldiers in a courtyard, with nothing to defend themselves but broomsticks and shovels, Ludmilla screamed. And screamed. A wail so intense, so frightening, that Alexia knew she would act on it. Deport her, perhaps—telling American authorities she was here without proper documents? Alexia was never sure if Uncle Fyodor had handled all that correctly. Alert Russian authorities to come for her here in America? It was possible. Those murdering savages would roam to the ends of the earth to stamp out her line. And now, it was the Ludmillas of the world who controlled the guns, and she who had nothing but a broomstick.

So, where do I go …from here? I hope I find new readers who will embrace Elizabeth Malin. I hope my old readers follow me to this new place. I hope, like all the characters in these stories to one degree or another, I find tenderness, acceptance and understanding.

Come like me on Facebook. And you can still visit my website at www.LibbyMalin.com to see what I’m up to! And, of course, you can buy From Here for your Kindle at Amazon!

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TGIW: Try them, you’ll like them: two authors you might not know

by Libby Sternberg

If you’re in an adventurous mood and want to try a new author, maybe something literary or at least upmarket, may I make a suggestion? I have two favorite authors who, while not obscure, are not household names. I heartily recommend their works. They are: Mark Helprin and Louis Bayard.

soldier of the great warMark Helprin: I discovered this author when I read a review of his novel A Soldier of the Great War that intrigued me. Then I was entranced by his soaring prose. To say he writes prose that sings doesn’t quite capture it. His storytelling is  a Mahleresque symphony that combines light and dark, humor and heartache, whimsy and grit.

If you’re reluctant to dive into his longer novels, however, his short story (almost a novella) “Ellis Island” is a good place to start. Around 70 pages long, it contains all his strongest elements–sepia-toned historical setting, fantastical narrative, humor, orchestral writing, and poignant heartbreak. Listen as he describes a voyage of immigrants in the early 190os:

The sea moderated, and the land sent out signs–not doves, but gulls as white as wave crests, who came to join us days before our landfall, and followed on vibrating wings that seemed unsteady but had been strong enough to carry them, through winter air, across hundreds of miles of sea….a day from port I saw a cloud bank that seemed anchored in place over all of North America. Only on the sea was the sky clear, in patches of the palest blue, and the sea itself was as flat and glassy as oil. Then there was nothing but cold fog and blasts of the whistle. The officers doubled their watches, standing outboard on the flying bridge, listening like hunting dogs or men who are awaiting a miracle. The first time our blasts were answered, they lifted their binoculars and peered out to sea. They closed their eyes like symphony conductors and strained after the sound.

At Ellis Island at last, our protagonist disembarks, only to be smitten by an enchanting beauty in line, a girl he is determined to make his own, no matter what the obstacles. And obstacles abound, including getting through quarantine and off the island into New York.  One of his immigration interrogators asks what he does, and his response is one most authors could sympathize with:

“I write books,'”I said. Little did I know that in America no one ever believes this, as if all the books that appear are written not by living people, but by hairbrushes, watermelons, and branding irons. She looked at me the way one looks at a madman.

ellis-island-english-6.previewEventually, our hero lands in the city and goes from adventure to adventure, trying to find lodging and work. When he’s told that Jews “were not wanted for manual labor,” he determines to give a name he thinks sounds all-American: Whiting Tatoon.

Whiting finds happiness and love and work, settling into the “dreamworld” of America. As for the girl he pined for on Ellis Island….he goes back to find her, and the story ends with him seeing through fresh eyes arrivals of new immigrants . No longer one of that crowd, he observes that the journey “takes from you as much as it gives, and that their difficult voyage was far from over–for the city itself is like wild surf, and lessons are hard to learn when one is breathless in a cold and active sea.”

“Ellis Island” feels breathless when you read it, as much poetry as prose. Helprin’s soaring novel Winter’s Tale is set to be released as a movie next year. I recommend reading his Memoirs from Antproof Case, A Soldier of the Great War, and stories in the collection The Pacific.

mr timothyLouis Bayard: I first discovered Bayard when I picked up his book Mr. Timothy. I was in the middle of writing a retelling of Jane Eyre (Sloane Hall, cough::cough shameless plug), and I was interested in other re-creations of famous tales. Mr. Timothy isn’t a retelling as much as a continuation. In it, Bayard covers the sweet and sad story of Timothy Cratchett — Tiny Tim from Dickens’s Christmas Carol. What a brilliant idea! But as many readers know, not every bit of genius translates into a compelling story. Mr. Timothy delivers, however, in both storytelling and characterization.

In Bayard’s vision, Timothy has lived his life on the generosity of his “Uncle” Scrooge who has continued to subsidize him into adulthood. This has left him without ambition and generally drifting, until a murder mystery presents itself.

But Bayard writes more than just a good mystery. His specialty is plumbing the depths of ennui. His main characters end up confronting some buried sorrow before the story is over, and even if the mystery is solved and the catharsis of discovery endured, sometimes the ensuing flames still consume those they cleanse.

If Mr. Timothy sounds like too far a stretch for you, start out by reading The Pale Blue Eye, a mystery set in 1830 West Point where an old detective sets about solving a murder with the help of a dreamy cadet….Edgar Allan Poe.  The Poe that Bayard paints is youthful and different, already a man apart from his peers. When the detective confronts Poe with various false tales Poe has told of his past, the young writer vows revenge…in his own way:

There comes  a time, I think, in every man’s life when he is forced to see his utter helplessness. He spends his last penny on a drink, or the woman he loves sweeps her plate clean of him, or he learns the man he trusted with everything wishes him only evil. And in that moment, he is bare.

That’s how Poe stood now in the middle of that room, as though every last strip of skin had been peeled away. His bones wobbled inside him.

“I assume you are finished,” he said finally.

“For now. Yes.”

“Then I will bid you good night.”

Dignity, yes, that would be his last redoubt. He would hold his head high as he made his way to the door….Something would make him speak, in a scalded voice.

“You will one day feel what you have done to me.”

pale blue eyeWhat a magnificent back story to come up with for Poe’s haunting writing–that he was trying to make all his readers feel the pain he’d suffered as a callow young man trying to impress, to be loved, and rudely brought back to reality.

Just as you think The Pale Blue Eye’s mystery is solved, Bayard throws in a final scene that will break your heart. It’s a tour de force piece of writing. I now read whatever new mystery he releases: The Black Tower, The School of  Night, and I eagerly await next year’s Roosevelt’s Beast.

Coming soon, I’ll share with you information on a series of books that should appeal to Downton Abbey fans!

Libby Sternberg is a novelist. If you buy her books, she can buy books, too.

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