In her first adult novel, Woodson--already acclaimed in both the African-American and lesbian and gay worlds for her award-winning short fiction--paints a moving portrait of childhood, family, and community that takes into account both the destruction wrought by war and the darker sides of emotional and sexual tension.
The ending happened a little too quickly and easily, but I still liked it. It felt like a natural cessation. I will have to read this book again, give it a little time to stew in my head before I can give it a real review, but let's just say I really enjoyed it.
Of all the Woodson books I have read, this one I liked least. Though the narrator is a child for most of the book, this is definitely not a children's or young adult book. It is harsh and I don't feel the ray of hope in this book. I need a ray of hope.
Gah. Mostly, I found this novella really disturbing. It all feels very experimental, and while the language is often lyrical and beautiful (which is what I loved most about Woodson's If You Come Softly), the subject matter is just relentless.
I generally love books narrated by young girls, because it's a voice we so rarely get to hear. Had this novel been longer and the characters were flushed out a little more, I would've rated it higher.
Powerful story, powerful prose which slithers softly taking you places you're not sure you want to go. The end is a bit weak, but all in all this is an electric read.
I used to say I’d be a teacher or a lawyer or a hairdresser when I grew up but even as I said these things, I knew what made me happiest was writing.
I wrote on everything and everywhere. I remember my uncle catching me writing my name in graffiti on the side of a building. (It was not pretty for me when my mother found out.) I wrote on paper bags and my shoes and denim binders. I chalked stories a
I used to say I’d be a teacher or a lawyer or a hairdresser when I grew up but even as I said these things, I knew what made me happiest was writing.
I wrote on everything and everywhere. I remember my uncle catching me writing my name in graffiti on the side of a building. (It was not pretty for me when my mother found out.) I wrote on paper bags and my shoes and denim binders. I chalked stories across sidewalks and penciled tiny tales in notebook margins. I loved and still love watching words flower into sentences and sentences blossom into stories.
I also told a lot of stories as a child. Not “Once upon a time” stories but basically, outright lies. I loved lying and getting away with it! There was something about telling the lie-story and seeing your friends’ eyes grow wide with wonder. Of course I got in trouble for lying but I didn’t stop until fifth grade.
That year, I wrote a story and my teacher said “This is really good.” Before that I had written a poem about Martin Luther King that was, I guess, so good no one believed I wrote it. After lots of brouhaha, it was believed finally that I had indeed penned the poem which went on to win me a Scrabble game and local acclaim. So by the time the story rolled around and the words “This is really good” came out of the otherwise down-turned lips of my fifth grade teacher, I was well on my way to understanding that a lie on the page was a whole different animal — one that won you prizes and got surly teachers to smile. A lie on the page meant lots of independent time to create your stories and the freedom to sit hunched over the pages of your notebook without people thinking you were strange.
Lots and lots of books later, I am still surprised when I walk into a bookstore and see my name on a book’s binder. Sometimes, when I’m sitting at my desk for long hours and nothing’s coming to me, I remember my fifth grade teacher, the way her eyes lit up when she said “This is really good.” The way, I — the skinny girl in the back of the classroom who was always getting into trouble for talking or missed homework assignments — sat up a little straighter, folded my hands on the desks, smiled and began to believe in me.
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