Mariella Hunt

The Tearoom

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  • Raising Hare: A Hare Full of Love

    Raising Hare: A Hare Full of Love


    Leveret Had Different Plans

    It is a mistake to believe that animals and humans cannot form bonds. A person who is willing to spend time with an animal will learn this, and they’ll be rewarded in countless ways, one being the fact that something so much smaller than you feels safe by your side.

    Raising Hare by Chloe Dalton was one of the most enchanting stories I have enjoyed this year. It is a memoir in which she tells us the heartwarming story of an unlikely friendship.

    Dalton had the job she had always dreamed of, following her passion to work as a political adviser with access to the “war room.” She could not have imagined how one act of kindness could change it all.

    When Chloe discovers a leveret (a newborn hare) alone on a track outdoors, she is torn at first about what to do. What happened to its mother? Did she abandon it, or did she plan to return shortly?

    Look! See! A Leveret

    Dalton describes her tiny companion:

    The animal, no longer than the width of my palm, lay on its stomach with its eyes open and its short, silky ears held tightly against its back. Its fur was dark brown, thick and choppy, and grew in delicate curls along its spine.

    At first, Chloe goes on her way, hoping that the mother hare will come back for her leveret. She decides to let nature take its course:

    I would leave the leveret where I had found it, in the hope that it would hurry into the long grass as soon as I had gone, and be reunited with its mother.

    Four hours later, she returned to discover that the leveret remained where she had left it, exposed to the elements and unclaimed by a mother hare.

    Chloe knows now that she cannot abandon it; there are too many predators in the vicinity. She takes it to her home, planning to nurture it until it is strong enough to disappear once more into the wild.

    Before long, however, a powerful bond begins to form. Chloe hand-feeds the leveret as if it were her own child, and the leveret begins to trust her as though she were its own mother. As the leveret grows, it is allowed to frolic about the house, picking amusing hiding spots. It keeps Chloe company as she reads or watches TV.

    It soon seems evident that the leveret might go outside to play for a while, but it is not in a hurry to abandon Chloe and her home, the only safe place it has known in its life.

    The Hare of the Matter

    The story of the leveret was charming, almost like a fairy tale, but I recognized several greater messages burrowed into each chapter. I will list a few of them here:

    • Why do we like to pretend other species are so different from us? Love is a universal emotion; just because animals express it differently doesn’t mean it is not true.

    • If you found an animal in distress, would you do as Chloe did? Would you speed past it, ignoring an opportunity to perform an act of kindness for the sake of kindness?

    • Some animals are not meant to be domesticated. Chloe refuses to give the leveret a name, feeling that by doing so she would be claiming it as her own, when it was never her intention to force the leveret permanently into her lifestyle.

    In fact, the opposite happened. In her final chapter, Dalton wrote:

    The sensation of wonder she ignited in me continues to burn, showing me that aspects of my life I thought were set in stone are in part as malleable as wax. She did not change, I did. I have not tamed the hare, but in many ways the hare has stilled me.

    What Love Looks Like

    What does it mean to truly love someone, human or otherwise? Dalton made me think that love has certain characteristics:

    • Love does not force the other person to change who they are. If your condition for giving affection is that the loved one do all that you say when you say it, that sounds more to me like keeping a pet than a lover — and Chloe Dalton never did this with the hare.

    • Love is not a trap. You must leave the door open; then, you’ll know that the person is returning to you because it enjoys your company and feels secure in your presence.

    • Love compels us to try to speak the language of the beloved. In the case of a creature who cannot speak our language, pay attention to what they do; take the time to look into their eyes, and be compassionate.

    Raising Hare is not just a memoir about a leveret. It’s a book about the importance of paying attention, crossing barriers, and loving another living thing — patiently, and with great care.

  • Tea with Kate Westbury, Author of ‘The Oxford Guide to Scandal and Lies’

    Tea with Kate Westbury, Author of ‘The Oxford Guide to Scandal and Lies’


    Set in Oxford in 1951, The Oxford Guide to Scandal and Lies brings together a university still living in the shadow of the Second World War, a young woman determined to make her own way, and a mystery that threatens to pull old secrets into the light. Ginevra Bishop is confident, clever, and perhaps a little too willing to trust her instincts, while Sidney Braithwaite carries wounds from the war that are less easily left behind. Against the colleges, traditions, friendships, and quiet intrigues of postwar Oxford, the two find themselves drawn into a story where scandal and loyalty can be difficult to separate.

    I was delighted to speak with Kate Westbury about the making of the novel, the women who pursued higher education in this period, the complicated aftermath of war, and why community matters so much to Ginevra’s story.

    Oxford feels almost like another character in The Oxford Guide to Scandal and Lies. What drew you to setting this mystery at the university in 1951?

    I have always been enchanted with Oxford, partly because the tutorial system is such a distinctive approach to higher education that has vanished apart from a handful of schools. The architecture of the individual colleges, the university’s integration into the city–the history of both the university and the city—it all combines into a rich, fascinating setting for story atmosphere, one you can really sink your teeth into as both an author and reader. I settled on early 1951 because it felt far enough from the end of the war that characters’ lives have had enough years to resettle into normal grooves, but it’s also right before some interesting things happened on the espionage front. (If you’ve never heard of the Cambridge Five, that’s an important bit of Cold War history which will have ramifications inside my story too.)

    Ginevra Bishop is a fascinating heroine because she is both intelligent and socially confident. What inspired her character, and what did you hope readers would understand about the experiences of women at Oxford during this period?

    I always balk when people ask what inspired Ginevra and Sidney because their voices were so loud and clear from the very beginning. There was no character worksheet: Gin appeared with a story to tell, and I listened. That being said, Anne Shirley, Jo March, and Elizabeth Bennet were some of my dearest heroes growing up, and I can see glimmers of that same bright independence in Gin’s character. As I got to know her over the course of the first draft, what interested me most was how confidence can mask all kinds of wounds—loneliness, in Ginevra’s case–but she also has the resilience to not jump into the easy marriage that society expects her to make that would (ostensibly) make her life easier. In a world that often undervalued women’s capabilities, Gin bets on herself, and you see that same doggedness in the women who pursued higher education during this eraof postwar change. 

    Sidney Braithwaite carries the emotional scars of war throughout the novel. How did you approach writing about the lasting impact of the war on those who lived through it, even years after the fighting had ended?

    I wanted to be very careful with how I portrayed his PTSD, that it wasn’t reduced to a stereotype and convenient plot point. I spent a lot of time thinking about how his mental health before the war contributed to where he is now and the myriad of different emotions someone who overthinks everything can be plagued by: the burden of rejecting parental expectations, the delight of finding something you love doing that ends up betraying you, the struggle to prove yourself when people expect—or want—you to fail. What Sidney experienced during the war left its scars, but the layers of what he’s still struggling to process are more complicated than a label, too. 

    It occurred to me recently that we’re about as far from the height of Covid shutdown as my characters would have been from the end of the war. When one considers the lingering repercussions of the former (and the enormity of the war in comparison), I think that offers some perspective to contemporary readers on how these characters would have felt about living in the shadow of WWII.  

    Gin has a strong support system and meaningful friendships, which is refreshing in a genre where heroines are often portrayed as isolated. Why was it important for you to give her these connections?

    Community is historically foundational to Oxford college life, so this felt like a very natural, importantpart of the story. For someone like Gin–someone who has been starved for connection since her mother’s death–it would have been a breath of fresh air. When she’s eager to be real partners with Sidney too, his rejection stings all the more because of it. (As Sidney’s arc includes reckoning with no man is an island, Gin’s little found family plays a role in that, too.)

    It was also important to me that her friends feel like fully realized characters who could carry their own story; they are not props in Ginevra’s life, and her relationship with them exists outside of the romance (much as they still might tease her). I want readers to enjoy those scenes (almost) as much as Gin and Sidney’s. 

    What do you hope readers take away from Gin’s journey, particularly her experiences with family, identity, and choosing the people who truly support her?

    Gin is so extroverted and oriented toward the people around her that her journey is about realizing when it’s ok to let go of people—and things—that are hurting her. While she tends to be impulsive and acts on instinct—e.g. it’s easy for her to reject a marriage proposal at the start of the story (or to ignore Sidney when he brushes her off) because there’s no established bond—she’s also very loyal. Those deeper emotional splinters are harder for her to root out because she’s grown accustomed to the pain, and in this story, she must reckon with the boundaries of who and what deserves her loyalty. 

    Which three books would you recommend to Tearoom readers right now, and why?

    The Eights by Joanna Miller is a fictionalized account of the first matriculating class of women from Oxford in 1920. If you’re craving more historic Oxford with a good mix of comedy and pathos, this one is exquisite.  

    The Cloak and Dagger Club by Jackie McMahon –This is a 1930s mystery inspired by the real-life Detection Club, and Jackie is an impressive student of the era. She really captures the style of Golden Age mysteries, creating a very clever, Christie-esquepuzzle with a side of second-chance romance. There is a sequel coming next year, too! 

    I am also recently obsessed with The Unselected Journals of Emma M. Lion series by Beth Brower. Beautifully written, deep character work, hilarious; I pitch them to my friends as L.M. Montgomery x P.G. Wodehouse x Gilmore Girls. I don’t remember the last time I wanted to escape somewhere as badly as I want to live in St. Crispian’s.

    Thank you to Kate Westbury for joining me at The Tearoom and for sharing such thoughtful insights into Ginevra, Sidney, and the world of postwar Oxford. The Oxford Guide to Scandal and Lies is a story about secrets, friendship, resilience, and the difficult question of where our loyalties belong—and I’m delighted to have had the chance to talk with Kate about the world she created.

    The Oxford Guide to Scandal and Lies releases September 1, 2026. If you’re drawn to historical mysteries, postwar Oxford, and characters who refuse to be neatly defined by the world around them, keep this one on your reading list.

  • ‘O, Juliet’ by Robin Maxwell

    ‘O, Juliet’ by Robin Maxwell


    William Shakespeare’s works have taken on so many forms. As the centuries passed and the world changed, his genius remained—but it began to morph, began wearing different clothes and appealing to new age groups. O, Juliet by Robin Maxwell is a creative retelling of the play Romeo and Juliet, written as a romance novel. A few characters’ names are changed, along with some world-building details, to make it feel like a well-rounded story.

    When Juliet meets Romeo in Maxwell’s novel, they fall immediately into a romance that is both energetic and irrational. It is not uncommon for a teenager’s first love to feel this way, and here there is the added pressure that their love is forbidden, as both of their families are locked in a generational feud. We all know that it can do little good to forbid something to someone; it only makes them more determined to have it. No words of wisdom or caution will open the eyes of a person caught in the mire of infatuation. Youth is, and always will be, impulsive.

    As I read Maxwell’s iteration of the story, I felt torn. I really enjoyed the book, as I don’t often find novels about love—purely and simply about that flirty feeling—that are gripping and also well-written.

    I have never actually read Romeo and Juliet as a play, but whenever I have encountered the story through adaptations and spin-offs, what strikes me is how the story, while common enough (young love is not a new concept), is driven by so much passion—and, in my view, it is not the romantic kind. How can you love a person if you barely know them? Is it love if so much of it is fueled by fear and violence?

    I believe that true love should make a person feel peaceful. Of course, it would bring with it romance and happy feelings, but it does not seem sustainable to me that a love affair should thrive on constant struggle and anxiety. If Romeo and Juliet’s families had not despised one another, would this ever have happened at all? Could it be that part of this attachment was due only to the fact that their love was forbidden?

    Juliet knows nothing about Romeo at first. What is immediately clear is that her family and his have long been in disagreement. Yet she is completely lost in this first love, captivated by Romeo physically and because he shares with her a deep love for literature, particularly Dante, who is to them what Shakespeare is to us. Now, I can understand this: while I have never had physical crushes on men, I could always appreciate meeting a gentleman who can participate in literary discussions that engage my mind.

    Page 3 says of Juliet:

    “But of all my furnishings, those that I most cherished were my wooden desk and my chair. Unremarkable as they were, they were sacred to me. Some girls took great pleasure in their prettily painted marriage chests that grew fuller every year with linen and baby clothes, gold plate, and fine pieces of glass they would one day take with them into their husband’s house…. But for me the center of the world, the universe itself, was my desk. For here it was that I read and I wrote, and more than in my bed and sleep, did here I dream.”

    This passage is a beautiful ode to the sacredness of a writing desk. Virginia Woolf wrote of how a woman needs “a room” of one’s own to be successful; it’s not a stretch to imagine she’d feel the same sort of reverence for a desk. And it does not even need to be a grand desk: Jane Austen famously wrote on a desk so small that it just barely had room for pages, ink, and quill. Any space set aside for creation is sacred, and in this passage, we see that Juliet understands this.

    Page 58 features a beautiful, breathless monologue by Juliet as she speaks of Romeo:

    “I’ve been wild with such longings since I met him. I have not slept except pitifully, and then I dream of him. And I dream in verse, words flowing into words, streams and rivers of them, and all with the theme of love. When I wake, I try to remember the poems, but they’re gone, disappeared. And all I have left are memories of the feel of his hand, the sound of his voice, the shape of his lips.”

    All things considered, I found O, Juliet to be a beautiful book—perhaps one of my favorites this year—because it is a book about love that, with magical prose and high stakes, makes us feel as if we, too, are involved in the forbidden affair. It soothes an ache that many of us feel, a wish to be so taken by another person that it changes the very colors of the world in which we live.

    There will always be a place for love stories—forbidden love, doomed love, even troubled love. Humanity needs love. This might explain the timelessness of Romeo and Juliet, which has continued to inspire creatives for centuries since the Bard wrote it.

  • ‘My Year of Rest and Relaxation’ by Ottessa Moshfegh

    ‘My Year of Rest and Relaxation’ by Ottessa Moshfegh


    When life becomes difficult, it gets really tempting to believe that sleeping will shield us from all of our problems. The bliss of slumber offers temporary relief, but our problems will not vanish. On waking — and, while we are alive, we must wake — we still have to battle our demons and find solutions to our problems.

    Ottessa Moshfegh’s My Year of Rest and Relaxation is a novel about a young woman who decides to spend an entire year sleeping. The narrator is nameless, but she becomes very real as we learn about her depression and her desire to disappear from the world. She begins this period of hibernation in June of 2000, when she is twenty-six years old.

    The only person who would visit, at least in the beginning, was Reva — a friend that our narrator met in college, but now is no longer sure that she likes. The bitter truth is this: you can love a person that you do not really like.

    What Is My Year of Rest and Relaxation About?

    On page 12, the narrator is telling Reva about her plan. “I’m not a junkie or something,” I said defensively. “I’m taking some time off. This is my year of rest and relaxation.”

    But the narrator becomes dependent on sleep medication — trazodone, Ambien, and Nembutal — and a host of other things that she acquires from a questionable and unscrupulous psychiatrist named Dr. Tuttle.

    The narrator is mum, at first, about her reasons for wanting to sleep for a year. But as we read on, we discover that, at the heart of it all, her wound stems from grief. Her father died of cancer, and her mother ended her own life not long afterward. They were both emotionally absent parents, but our narrator is scared, all the same, by how they left her alone in the big and cruel world.

    Grief and Depression in My Year of Rest and Relaxation

    This is another novel that deals with grief and the messy ways that it can change the lives of those left behind. It does not matter if the person who died was loving or even kind to those left behind. Death in the family is a change of life, a hole that needs filling, and we all seek ways to fill in the holes left behind.

    In this book, relief is found in sleep — in the void, the nothingness of slumber.

    In After Annie, the characters seek relief in distraction. They change routines, participate in romantic affairs, struggle with failing grades, and lash out in anger. Moshfegh’s narrator wants only to retreat, to enjoy the void of Dr. Tuttle’s prescriptions.

    While much of this story might be exaggerated, here is another common reaction to great tragedy. Grief is exhausting — but, it struck me as I was reading, this narrator’s great ruse also seems exhausting to uphold. She thinks it will make sleep easier, but perhaps all the effort she puts into maintaining her isolation makes rest harder to achieve.

    Indeed, grief is messy. It is not logical and it can often be unproductive. It does not always look like black mourning clothes and boxes of tissues. And in the case of this narrator, it takes the form of deep exhaustion, apathy about the world, and an urge to seek numbness at all costs.

    But sleep does not make the grief go away. All emotions, positive and negative, are persistent; they demand, sooner or later, to be felt.

    Reva and the Loneliness of Depression

    The narrator tries to push away Reva, who is the only person consistently present in her life and who constantly offers good advice on healthy ways to grieve, such as leaving the house.

    A person determined to suffer may push away anyone who tries to remind them that better things are possible. When someone is deeply depressed, accepting help can feel almost threatening because it requires them to imagine that their suffering might not be permanent.

    In my notes about After Annie, I wrote about how good novels can help us work through grief. Grief can lead to numbness. It can cause self-destructive behavior. These are emotions that we are often scared to address in the real world; novels create safe spaces in which we can explore the darker emotions that live in all of us.

    Reva had been having an affair with a married man that she knew from work. She is losing her mother to cancer, which means she’s constantly in need of comfort that the narrator is unable, or unwilling, to give. She has an eating disorder and always feels that she is overweight, though she is not.

    The narrator sees all of Reva’s problems and is annoyed by them. She is self-centered in the way that one with depression can be: no one else’s trouble is worth the energy. No one else is struggling. Many do not talk about this truth — depression can make the sufferer feel as though they are the center of the universe.

    My Year of Rest and Relaxation Ending

    Spoilers ahead.

    But after the year of rest and relaxation ends, the entire world changes.

    On September 11, the Twin Towers fall. Reva is in the North Tower, where she worked. The narrator records footage of the tragedy and watches it constantly to remind herself that life is worth living. She cannot see those poor souls jumping to their deaths and dismiss their suffering.

    After this tragedy, the world changes. New York City changes. And our narrator cannot remain stagnant anymore: she is forced to change, too.

    The year she spent trying to disappear has ended, and the world has given her a terrible reason to become fully awake again.

  • ‘The Swans of Fifth Avenue’ by Melanie Benjamin

    ‘The Swans of Fifth Avenue’ by Melanie Benjamin


    Historical fiction is unique because it allows us to “meet” some of the artists and celebrities who gave the past its most vivid colors. Melanie Benjamin’s The Swans of Fifth Avenue brings us into the glamorous world of Truman Capote and the wealthy New York women who became his closest friends and, eventually, his greatest enemies.

    I knew very little about Truman Capote before reading this novel. Of course, I knew him as the author of Breakfast at Tiffany’s, but I had never really wondered about Truman the person—the mind that dreamed up Holly Golightly. Benjamin presents him as thoroughly human. Behind the literary genius was a flawed soul with many wounds left over from childhood, and a void he tried to fill with fame, friendship, and a larger-than-life personality.

    At first, Truman is a beloved confidante to his wealthy friends, affectionately known as “the Swans.” He is welcomed into their glamorous world and becomes privy to their secrets. But after the success of Breakfast at Tiffany’s, Truman becomes increasingly consumed with the idea that his next work must be even more sensational.

    So he begins using the secrets of his friends as material.

    Although he changes the names of the characters in his stories, it isn’t difficult for those around him to recognize themselves. His friends feel betrayed. Truman has taken the intimate details they entrusted to him and transformed them into entertainment for the public.

    When one of his stories contributes to the destruction of a woman’s life, there is no going back. Truman has the fame he wanted, but he loses the people who loved him.

    Was it worth it?

    That question is at the heart of the novel. Writers often draw inspiration from real life, and there is nothing inherently wrong with that. But where is the line between inspiration and exploitation? What happens when our success depends upon exposing someone else’s vulnerability?

    Benjamin’s novel suggests that fame rarely provides the wholeness people imagine it will. Truman spends years pursuing recognition, only to discover that success cannot replace the friendships he has lost. The void he was attempting to fill becomes even larger.

    The Swans are similarly desperate to escape their own fears. Their world is one of glamour, wealth, beautiful clothing, and carefully maintained appearances, but underneath it all is an awareness of mortality. They do not want to grow old. Their beauty is one of the few forms of power they possess, and they fight desperately against the passage of time.

    This part of the novel feels surprisingly modern.

    We may no longer live in the same world of Fifth Avenue dinner parties and society pages, but the battle against aging has hardly disappeared. Beauty products promise clearer skin, fewer wrinkles, whiter teeth, and a younger appearance. Social media allows us to carefully curate our images and decide which version of ourselves other people are allowed to see.

    The Swans wanted to hide the evidence of time. Today, we have filters.

    The deeper tragedy is that the Swans become so committed to maintaining their perfect images that truth itself becomes threatening. Truman exposes the shadows behind their picture-perfect lives and reminds them that they are human.

    But Truman is hardly innocent. He is also performing. He has created his own larger-than-life persona, and he uses the private lives of others to sustain his fame. He exposes their secrets while simultaneously trying to hide his own wounds.

    That complexity is what makes the story so compelling.

    Everyone in this novel is, in some way, trying to escape being ordinary, forgotten, or mortal. They use beauty, wealth, friendship, literature, and fame as ways of bargaining with time. None of them can actually win.

    Ultimately, The Swans of Fifth Avenue is a story about the price of being seen—and the price of refusing to be seen honestly.

    The most powerful stories are often the ones that contain the truth. Capote understood that. But the truth-teller risks becoming a threat to those who would rather remain hidden.

    All the same, someone has to tell it.

    A world without truth would be horrific, indeed.

  • Tea with Mariko Turk, Author of ‘The Museum of Modern Love’

    Tea with Mariko Turk, Author of ‘The Museum of Modern Love’


    There are few things I love more than talking with a writer about the books they’ve made and the worlds that shaped them.

    Today, I’m having tea with Mariko Turk, author of The Museum of Modern Love, to talk about writing, art, love, and the strange, wonderful things that happen when those worlds meet.

    The Museum of Modern Love follows Miki, a young intern at the Metropolitan Museum of Art who plans to spend a night alone in the museum with her crush. As they make their way through the galleries, visiting the paintings her grandparents saw when they first fell in love, Miki hopes to finally tell him how she feels.

    I hope you’ll pull up a chair and join us.

    Q: The Museum of Modern Art in your novel feels like a space saturated with love for art in all its forms. I was especially struck by Grandma Hana’s belief that art is something we can fall in love with. How do you think we can carry that philosophy into our everyday lives, outside of museums and books?

    A: What a great question! I think we can carry that philosophy into our daily lives by making time and space to appreciate beauty. Whether it’s a particularly lovely tree you pass by every day in your neighborhood, or a heartwarming scene you witness at the playground, or a perfect, peaceful moment you experience while sipping tea and listening to the birds sing. Too often we don’t pause to examine or appreciate these things because we’re distracted by all kinds of stuff, some of it very necessary (work, childcare, grocery shopping, etc.) and some of it not as necessary (the endless array of screens always at our disposal). But what if we stopped to study the pattern of veins on the leaves? Or to reflect on why that scene at the playground captured our heart? Or to linger in that peaceful moment with the birds?

    This is why I love museums so much, because they force us to study and reflect and linger. They force us to slow down and really look at things, as if our only job is to marinate in art and what it makes us feel. So why not treat the world around us like a museum sometimes? I feel like we’d all be a bit happier and more fulfilled.

    Q: Reading your novel over the weekend felt, at times, like stepping into the Met itself—its atmosphere is so vivid and immersive. How did you approach building that sense of place on the page? And do you have a personal history or relationship with the museum that shaped it?

    A: One of my best friends worked at the Met Museum for many years, and I remember visiting her there several times in my twenties. So some of my research was drawing on memories of what it felt like to be there in that grand, awe-inspiring place, and also what it felt like to get little peeks behind the scenes.

    But because I live in Colorado and can’t just skip over to the Met any time I want (though wouldn’t that be amazing?) I did A LOT of remote research about the details of the Met’s galleries. I read books and listened to podcasts about the Met. I was on the Met’s website constantly, studying floor plans and reading about exhibits and collections. 

    Any time a particularly fascinating piece of art stood out to me, I’d make a note of it and think about how it could fit into Miki and Lou’s love story. I can honestly say it was the most fun I’ve ever had while researching! 

    I found Miki and Auden’s relationship deeply recognizable, especially the intensity of their long-distance connection and the earnestness of their feelings. It made me think of how often young love is shaped as much by imagination as by reality. In your view, what creates the central tension in their relationship—distance, youth, or something more subtle between the two?

    Distance and youth for sure, but also fear. Specifically, the fear of uncertainty and vulnerability, which results in the desire to cling to what is safe and familiar. I felt that fear a lot when I was a teen, which is probably why my own teen love life was 100% taking place in my imagination. I had a lot of very intense crushes that hinged on small interactions and instant message chats because it was a way to have the excitement of romance without any of the messiness and vulnerability that comes with a real relationship.

    I think that a lot of teens in this generation experience that fear as well, especially since so many of their relationships also take place via a screen. Real relationships can be messy and scary, but I hope that through Miki’s journey, readers see that it can also be exhilarating and fulfilling. 

    Q: Were there particular artistic, literary, or cultural influences that guided you while writing this story? I’m curious what works or ideas might be quietly woven into its emotional landscape.

    A: The book that first sparked the idea for this story is the 1967 middle grade classic From the Mixed-Up Files of Mrs. Basil E. Frankweiler, by E.L. Konigsburg. It’s about a brother and sister who run away to the Metropolitan Museum of Art and stay there for multiple nights. It is SO evocative, funny, thoughtful, and poignant, and I feel like anyone who read it as a kid (or an adult) has fantasies about staying overnight in an art museum. It also does such a lovely job of juxtaposing the grandeur and history of the museum with the bickering and emotional breakthroughs of its young protagonists—while treating each with the respect and gravity they deserve. It’s a juxtaposition I wanted to capture in Miki and Lou’s story as well.

    The history of WWII Japanese American incarceration also features in the story, specifically Miki’s experience as a descendant of a camp survivor. I drew on my own family’s history in the camps as well as outside research to think about how Miki’s perception of art, the past, museums, and love might be shaped by this particular aspect of her family history.

    Q: On a lighter note—if you could step into the world of your novel for a day, wandering the museum and its surroundings as one of your characters, where would you go first, and what would you be most tempted to take with you in your imagination?

    A: I have always been drawn to portraits, especially unconventional ones when the subject doesn’t seem posed but instead just captured in a real moment from their lives. I also love paintings of people in general—family scenes, party scenes, groups of friends gathered together. There is always so much to dissect and wonder about. The relationships between the subjects, what was happening right before this scene, what will happen after, what the people were like in real life, etc. 

    I think I’m drawn to paintings of people because they lend themselves so well to stories. If I could wander the museum overnight, I’d find all the most intriguing people on the walls and make up stories about them all! 

    Q: I also found myself thinking about how certain books feel like they slow you down while you’re reading them—in the best way. Was that sense of quiet, lingering attention something you were consciously trying to build into the reading experience of this novel?

    A: Yes! And I’m so glad you felt it! I wanted the experience of reading the book to mimic the experience of visiting an art museum, when you travel through centuries of beauty and history all in the span of a few hours. And then you come back out into the real world, and it feels so strange, because not a lot of time has passed, but you feel like you’ve been on an epic journey. You feel like you’ve traveled through so much time and so many emotions. You feel changed.

    I wanted Miki and Lou to feel that way, to realize they needed to slow down and really see the details of the other person, the same way they slow down and look at the art. They fall in love with each other the same way they fall in love with the art that surrounds them. And I wanted the readers to feel that way, too! 

  • ‘After Annie’ by Anna Quindlen

    ‘After Annie’ by Anna Quindlen


    Books cannot directly solve the problem of death, but I have come to realize that they can offer an insight into grief and loss that is incredibly powerful. Years after losing important people in my own life, I am grateful for novels that reassure me that grief is never simple. It is messy and hollow all at once, the process of trying to fill such enormous holes.

    After Annie by Anna Quindlen is not a very long book, but it is full of truth. It follows the Brown family after the sudden death of Annie, a wife and mother who dies from an aneurysm. When she goes, so does life as the family knew it, because the whole household has relied upon her. The children find that they have no choice but to grow up, especially Ali, the oldest, who must step up and learn to do the things her mother once did because no one else is going to do them for her.

    Annie’s husband is lost in a different way. Months after his wife is buried, he has an affair with an old girlfriend, perhaps seeking comfort in some form of familiarity. But he soon realizes that the relationship is not healing him or helping him grow. Instead, it is pushing his two older children further away.

    One of the most interesting things about the novel is that, immediately after Annie’s death, no one in her family seems able to remember her imperfectly. Her husband occasionally feels frustration toward her, but he pushes those feelings away because they are accompanied by guilt. He seeks comfort in distraction instead. Her best friend, Annemarie, was also in love with her, but this ultimately creates more resentment toward Annie’s husband than toward Annie herself.

    The suddenness of Annie’s death creates a fear of dishonoring her, as though she might somehow return if everyone remains silent, or as though an unkind thought could somehow cause her to die all over again.

    This fear is not uncommon, especially immediately after a death. Words and even thoughts are handled carefully. It can be easier to find distraction in lovers, alcohol, or anything else that keeps us from thinking honestly about what we feel. Do we subconsciously imagine that the person we have lost, now existing only in spirit, can somehow see all of our private thoughts and feelings?

    I have known grief to change not only how a family looks, but also how it feels. It does not simply take the form of tears; that would almost be too easy. It also looks like insomnia, anger, irritability, silence, and an unbearable emptiness. These emotions are much more difficult to excuse than a fit of crying. If only tears were the ultimate and final expression of loss. But the emotions of a human heart are, by nature, difficult to contain and understand.

    Novels allow us to explore these differing twists and turns. They do not answer all of our questions, but they can provide a starting point on the journey toward peace. A novel is a complete form of art, an elaborate map of the landscape of human emotion, capable of charting both its rises and its descents. Anna Quindlen has given us a beautifully written story of a family struggling to find its footing again.

    Because life must go on. We have not died with our loved one. Our time on this planet has not yet ended. We still have decisions to make and stories to tell.

    The hardest part is getting up and beginning to live again, but it is also the most important part. Our deceased loved ones do not want us to stop living. Their time here is finished; ours is not. There are still people who love us, people who need us, and people who share in the same story we are living.

    Grief demands to be felt and experienced, but it is not meant to steal our entire lives from us. Eventually, we have to get back up and make the most of the time we have left. We cannot bring back those who have passed on, but we can choose to keep living.

    Perhaps that is one of the truest ways we can honor their memories.

  • ‘The Pirate Queen’ by Ariel Lawhon

    ‘The Pirate Queen’ by Ariel Lawhon


    Few figures in history are as captivating as Grace O’Malley, the legendary Irish pirate, chieftain, and political leader. In The Pirate Queen, Ariel Lawhon brings Grace O’Malley’s remarkable life to the page in a sweeping work of historical fiction that blends meticulous research with unforgettable storytelling.

    Set in sixteenth-century Ireland, The Pirate Queen follows Grace O’Malley from her childhood to the end of her life. As the daughter of chieftain and pirate Eoin O’Malley, Grace is expected to marry for the good of her clan rather than pursue a life of adventure. Yet from an early age, she is drawn to the sea, where she discovers not only freedom but also her gift for leadership.

    What makes The Pirate Queen such a compelling historical fiction novel is that Grace O’Malley is never portrayed as larger than life. She is courageous and fiercely intelligent, but she is also deeply human. Throughout the novel she experiences betrayal, heartbreak, political conflict, and personal loss, each challenge shaping the woman she ultimately becomes.

    Grace O’Malley’s greatest strength is her ability to earn loyalty through respect rather than fear. Although many men dismiss her simply because she is a woman, she repeatedly proves herself capable of commanding ships, negotiating alliances, and protecting her people. Her determination makes her one of the most memorable heroines in recent historical fiction.

    Ariel Lawhon also excels at recreating sixteenth-century Ireland. The rugged coastline, clan rivalries, and ever-present dangers of life at sea create a vivid backdrop for Grace O’Malley’s story without overshadowing the emotional heart of the novel. Readers who enjoy immersive historical fiction will find themselves completely transported.

    One of the novel’s most moving themes is the resilience of women. Grace learns early that the world is rarely kind to those who challenge expectations, yet she refuses to surrender her independence. Her relationships with her children, her crew, and the people she leads reveal a woman who understands that compassion and strength can exist side by side.

    The meeting between Grace O’Malley and Queen Elizabeth I is among the novel’s most memorable scenes. Here are two women who have each fought to maintain power in societies determined to deny them authority. Without saying much, they recognize one another as equals, making the encounter one of the emotional high points of The Pirate Queen.

    As with her previous novels, Ariel Lawhon demonstrates a remarkable ability to breathe life into historical figures. Rather than presenting Grace O’Malley as a distant legend, she allows readers to experience her fears, triumphs, failures, and hopes. The result is a historical fiction novel that feels both epic and deeply personal.

    If you enjoy historical fiction featuring extraordinary women, richly researched settings, and unforgettable characters, The Pirate Queen deserves a place on your reading list. Ariel Lawhon has crafted a heartfelt tribute to Grace O’Malley, reminding readers why her story has endured for centuries. It is a novel that celebrates courage, resilience, and the enduring power of compassionate leadership.

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  • What Does It Mean to Know?

    What Does It Mean to Know?


    Mary Shelley’s Frankenstein is often called “a book about a monster,” but having read it several times, I don’t think that’s why it endures. What makes it singular is the emotional darkness readers wade through from beginning to end — loss, anger, abandonment run through every chapter. These aren’t incidental; they connect directly to Shelley’s own struggles. She lived a life many called scandalous, wrenched again and again by loss.

    I’ve been considering the unique emotional environments of novels by Shelley and the Brontës, and the poetry of Emily Dickinson, to figure out what it means to “write what you know.” The more I sit with their work, the more it seems the advice depends entirely on what we mean by knowing.

    Does one have to have physically been there or experienced it?

    Their own lives argue no. Shelley wrote a creature’s isolation without being one. The Brontës wrote moor-haunted romance as young women who’d barely left Haworth. What they had wasn’t the event itself — it was the feeling underneath it: grief, longing, ambition. That they had genuinely lived, even if the circumstances around it were invented.

    Is it not true knowledge to experience a thing or place in imagination?

    This might be the real crux of the question. Dickinson is the clearest case — she knew longing, awe, and dread without needing the external experience most people assume is required to write about them. Imagination isn’t a lesser substitute for lived knowledge. For some writers, it’s the primary instrument for reaching emotional truths they’d have no other route to. The Brontës’ childhood kingdoms — Glass Town, Angria, Gondal — make the same case from another angle: pretend worlds, built young, trained real emotional insight that surfaced decades later in Jane Eyre and Wuthering Heights.

    Is it still worth writing what we know if the subject matter is heavy, or something we’d prefer not to know?

    Shelley’s losses weren’t chosen. She didn’t get to opt out of that knowledge — Frankenstein is what she did with it anyway. That suggests the heaviest material may be the most worth writing, not despite our reluctance to face it, but because of it. Reluctance is often a sign the material matters.

    There’s a distinction worth holding onto here, too: writing something painful in order to understand it is not the same as writing it for shock or spectacle. That difference in intention tends to show up on the page, whether or not a reader could name why.

    Taken together, these three writers suggest that “knowing” was never really about passport stamps or a full social calendar. It was about attention — paying close attention to what you feel, fear, or long for — and having the courage to put it down honestly, whether or not you ever lived the events themselves.

  • ‘An American Beauty’ by Shana Abé

    ‘An American Beauty’ by Shana Abé


    Historical fiction set during America’s Gilded Age is one of my favorite genres. It combines dazzling wealth with rigid social expectations, creating stories in which appearances are often as important as reality. As someone who once watched Downton Abbey almost obsessively, I never seem to tire of grand mansions, elaborate balls, and the complicated lives hidden behind polished façades.

    Earlier this month I returned to the Gilded Age with The American Heiress by Daisy Goodwin. Shana Abé’s An American Beauty proved to be the perfect companion novel. Richly researched and emotionally engaging, it transforms the life of one of the era’s most controversial women into a thoughtful story about ambition, survival, and the price of belonging.

    A Novel Inspired by the Life of Arabella Huntington

    An American Beauty is inspired by the life of Arabella Huntington, who was born into poverty in the American South following the Civil War. Disease and hardship shape her early years, and after the death of her father, Arabella dreams of a life far removed from the uncertainty surrounding her family.

    That opportunity appears when she meets railroad magnate Collis Huntington. Wealthy, powerful, and captivated by Arabella, Collis changes the course of her life forever. There is one obstacle, however: he already has a wife.

    Unable to let Arabella go, Collis brings her and her family to New York, surrounding them with unimaginable luxury. Yet all the wealth in the world cannot buy respectability. Their relationship becomes an open secret, and New York society largely sides with Elizabeth Huntington, Collis’s wife.

    One of the novel’s most compelling moments comes when Elizabeth, dying of cancer years later, asks to see Arabella. The meeting between the two women is surprisingly moving. Rather than reducing them to rivals, Shana Abé allows each woman to be fully human, shaped by love, resentment, disappointment, and loss.

    More Than a Love Triangle

    Although the novel centers on Collis Huntington’s complicated relationships, it is ultimately less interested in romance than in the women whose lives are defined by his choices.

    Elizabeth represents respectability and social acceptance. Arabella represents survival and reinvention. Neither woman truly wins.

    Another fascinating relationship develops between Arabella and Clara Huntington, Collis’s adopted daughter. Clara understands what it means to feel like an outsider despite extraordinary privilege. Their unlikely bond becomes one of the emotional highlights of the novel, demonstrating that belonging is not always determined by wealth or family connections.

    As Arabella grows older, she gradually realizes that years spent hiding, performing, and seeking acceptance have come at a tremendous personal cost. By the end of her life, she no longer feels compelled to earn society’s approval. She simply chooses to live as herself.

    The Double Standards of the Gilded Age

    One of the novel’s greatest strengths is its willingness to examine the unequal standards imposed upon women.

    Arabella receives endless criticism for becoming involved with a married man. While her choices are certainly controversial, the novel never allows readers to forget that Collis Huntington was equally responsible for the affair. Yet public condemnation falls almost entirely upon Arabella.

    That imbalance feels remarkably familiar.

    Even during the Gilded Age, women often carried the social consequences of choices made by both partners. A wealthy husband might recover from scandal with relatively little damage to his reputation, while a woman could remain permanently defined by it.

    Elizabeth suffers in a different way. She is, by every social measure, an ideal wife, but her inability to bear children becomes a deep source of pain and insecurity. When Arabella gives Collis a son, the emotional wounds between the two women deepen even further.

    Rather than presenting simple heroes and villains, Shana Abé explores how impossible circumstances can shape otherwise ordinary people.

    Survival Rather Than Scandal

    The wealth and glamour surrounding Arabella’s life give the novel an almost fairy-tale atmosphere. Mansions, jewels, lavish parties, and enormous fortunes create the illusion of a Cinderella story.

    Yet beneath that glitter lies something much more complicated.

    Arabella’s story is fundamentally one of survival.

    Throughout history, many women had very few opportunities to improve their circumstances. Marriage often represented economic security as much as romantic love. Every available path carried risks. Marrying beneath one’s station could lead to poverty and social exclusion, while marrying above it often brought suspicion, resentment, and lifelong scrutiny.

    There was rarely a perfect choice.

    That historical reality gives An American Beauty much of its emotional power.

    Final Thoughts

    Today, women enjoy opportunities that would have been unimaginable during the Gilded Age. Many pursue careers, remain single, marry later in life, or choose entirely different paths than previous generations.

    Yet judgment has not disappeared.

    Women continue to face expectations about marriage, work, motherhood, appearance, and countless other aspects of their lives. What has changed are the choices available—not necessarily the opinions surrounding them.

    That is what makes An American Beauty feel surprisingly modern despite its historical setting.

    History has not always remembered Arabella Huntington kindly. Shana Abé invites readers to look beyond the scandal and consider the circumstances that shaped her decisions. Whether readers ultimately sympathize with Arabella or not, they are unlikely to forget her.

    Beautifully written, emotionally intelligent, and grounded in fascinating history, An American Beauty is one of the finest Gilded Age novels I have read this year. I highly recommend it to readers who enjoy historical fiction, stories of remarkable women, and novels that explore the complicated relationship between morality and survival.

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  • ‘The Three Graces of Pearl Street’ by Elizabeth Wellington Rollins

    ‘The Three Graces of Pearl Street’ by Elizabeth Wellington Rollins


    If you’re looking for a thoughtful novel about family, aging, faith, and the quiet power of kindness, The Three Graces of Pearl Street by Elizabeth Wellington Rollins is well worth reading. This heartfelt contemporary novel explores the bonds between three generations of women while asking timeless questions about grief, service, forgiveness, and what it truly means to leave a legacy.

    Death and the natural passing of time have always been subjects I struggle with. Grief is an adversary every one of us will eventually meet, yet none of us are ever fully prepared for it. Books cannot shield us from those seasons of loss, but they can help us approach them from a safe distance. Reading about characters who wrestle with aging, regret, and mortality often makes those fears feel a little less lonely.

    Readers who enjoyed Theo of Golden may find a similar spirit in The Three Graces of Pearl Street. While the stories are different, both novels celebrate lives devoted to compassion, sacrifice, and serving others. They remind us that an ordinary life, lived with generosity, can leave an extraordinary mark on the world.

    What Is The Three Graces of Pearl Street About?

    At the center of The Three Graces of Pearl Street are three women who share the name Graziella—grandmother, mother, and granddaughter. Living under one roof, they navigate the everyday joys and frustrations of family life while learning to understand one another across generations.

    The eldest Graziella quickly became my favorite character. As a young woman, she dreamed of becoming a nun, but life led her in another direction. Even so, she never abandoned her desire to serve others. She spends much of her life running a soup kitchen, believing compassion should always come before recognition or prestige.

    Themes of Faith, Service, and Conscience

    One of the strongest aspects of The Three Graces of Pearl Street is its thoughtful exploration of faith. Graziella finds herself in conflict with the religious leaders who oversee the soup kitchen, creating a compelling discussion about authority, leadership, and conscience.

    Although Graziella is Catholic, she refuses to ignore her conscience simply because an authority tells her otherwise. Instead, she risks her own savings to establish a soup kitchen that reflects the values she believes in. Rather than presenting easy answers, Elisabeth Wellington Rollins invites readers to consider what authentic service truly looks like.

    What impressed me most was that the novel avoids reducing anyone to a villain. Instead, it recognizes that sincere people can disagree while still sharing a desire to help others.

    Family Relationships Across Generations

    Graziella’s relationship with her granddaughter, Ella, forms the emotional heart of the novel. The two argue often, largely because they are so alike. Their conversations are passionate, frustrating, and deeply believable.

    As the story unfolds, those arguments reveal something deeper than conflict. They become expressions of love between two people struggling to understand each other while speaking different emotional languages.

    The novel suggests that forgiveness is rarely instantaneous, but honest communication can slowly heal even long-standing misunderstandings.

    Why The Three Graces of Pearl Street Resonated With Me

    Although the novel contains moments of humor and warmth, it also explores fears surrounding aging, illness, grief, and saying goodbye to those we love. These themes resonated with me because they reflect questions I have wrestled with for years.

    There is a unique comfort that comes from reading a book written by someone who understands those fears. Rather than offering simple solutions, The Three Graces of Pearl Street feels like sitting beside a trusted friend who quietly reminds you that you are not alone.

    Perhaps the greatest lesson the novel offers is that every one of us can make a meaningful difference. We do not need to become wealthy or famous. We do not need to perform extraordinary acts. Sometimes the greatest gifts we can offer are our compassion, our time, and our willingness to truly see another person.

    Graziella’s greatest strength is not the number of people she helps but the sincerity behind every act of kindness. Every conversation, every meal, and every sacrifice reminds us that genuine compassion is measured not by recognition but by love.

    Final Thoughts on The Three Graces of Pearl Street

    The Three Graces of Pearl Street by Elizabeth Wellington Rollins is ultimately a novel about hope. It reminds readers that growing older is not simply a story of decline but one of continued wisdom, generosity, and purpose. Every stage of life offers opportunities to teach, forgive, and love more deeply.

    By the final pages, I found myself thinking less about death and more about legacy. The novel suggests that what ultimately survives us is not our accomplishments but the kindness we leave behind.

    If you enjoy uplifting literary fiction, family sagas, novels about faith and community, or stories that celebrate the quiet heroism of ordinary people, The Three Graces of Pearl Street is an easy recommendation. It is a moving reminder that true love is stronger than death—and that even the smallest acts of kindness can change a life.

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  • ‘The Oxford Guide to Scandal and Lies’ by Kate Westbury

    ‘The Oxford Guide to Scandal and Lies’ by Kate Westbury


    I do not often reach for mystery novels, as many can begin to feel similar after a while. Historical mysteries, however, have always felt different to me. The combination of investigation, atmosphere, and the customs of another era can make even a familiar storyline feel fresh and unique. A well-written historical mystery does not simply ask us to solve a crime; it invites us into another world.

    Kate Westbury’s The Oxford Guide to Scandal and Lies does exactly this, transporting readers to Oxford during the time of the Great War, where secrets, grief, and old rivalries exist beneath the beauty of one of the world’s most famous universities.

    One of the strongest elements of the novel is the setting. Oxford itself becomes almost like another character in the story, filled with ancient buildings, traditions, and academic history. I especially enjoyed that one of the protagonists, Ginevra Bishop, is a female student at a time when women were still fighting for their place within academic spaces. In real life, women were allowed to study at Oxford beginning in 1879, when women’s colleges Lady Margaret Hall and Somerville Hall opened. However, full membership in the university and the ability to receive degrees did not come until October 14, 1920.

    Westbury captures the excitement and uncertainty of this transitional period. Gin represents a generation of women who are intelligent, ambitious, and ready to claim opportunities that previous generations were denied.

    The second protagonist, Sidney Braithwaite, carries his own wounds from the war. Haunted by the things he witnessed, Sidney struggles to open up and has no plans to fall in love. His focus is simply on moving forward with the life he has left. However, those plans are tested when he and Ginevra are chosen together to investigate the mysterious death of Mr. Tolliver, a librarian at Oxford’s famous Bodleian Library.

    The scenes involving the Bodleian Library were some of my favorites. During my own visit to Oxford, I was able to see the library from the outside, though I was not able to go inside. Reading about it through Westbury’s descriptions felt almost like returning for a second visit. This is one of the great gifts of books: they allow us to travel, revisit places we have loved, and experience locations we may never otherwise see.

    At first, Mr. Tolliver’s death appears connected to his work tracking down spies who were leaking information to the Kremlin. But as Gin and Sidney begin to investigate, they discover that the truth may be much closer to home. The university is filled with people who have their own motives, and old grudges, broken relationships, and past betrayals can be just as dangerous as international intrigue.

    Gin is one of the strongest aspects of the novel. She is clever, curious, and determined, but Westbury also allows her to simply be a young woman. She is bookish, but she is also attractive and socially connected. A woman can be popular, pretty, and intelligent at the same time, and I appreciated seeing that represented. Too often, historical fiction creates female characters who must reject traditional ideas of femininity in order to prove their intelligence. Gin does not need to do that. Her strength comes from being fully herself.

    Westbury also succeeds in making the world of the novel feel lively rather than distant. Although the story takes place in the past, the characters have energy and personality that make the setting feel immediate. Gin’s willingness to speak her mind feels especially refreshing for a woman of her time period, while Sidney’s quieter struggles create a thoughtful contrast.

    The relationship between Gin and Sidney is another highlight. They work well together because their connection is built on mutual understanding and respect. Both characters have experienced loss, and both carry emotional burdens they do not easily share. Their growing affection for one another is noticeable, but the romance never overwhelms the mystery. Instead, it becomes another part of the larger story about healing and trust.

    I also appreciated that Gin has friendships outside of her relationship with Sidney. Recently, many female protagonists in fiction are portrayed as isolated or disconnected from those around them. Gin, however, has a trusted group of friends who provide encouragement and support. She does not spend every moment focused on Sidney or the mystery. She has a life of her own, and that makes her character feel much more realistic.

    The Oxford Guide to Scandal and Lies introduces a fresh and memorable character to the world of historical mysteries. Gin and Sidney make a compelling team, and the combination of Oxford’s history, an intriguing mystery, and emotional character development creates an engaging read.

    I finished this book in a little over a day, and I am looking forward to continuing the series. Westbury leaves enough unanswered questions and possibilities to make the next installment exciting.

    Ultimately, this novel offers more than a mystery. It has the nostalgia of an ancient university, the hope of young women pursuing their futures, and the reminder that family is not always defined by blood. It reminds us that we do not have to endure difficult seasons alone. There are people willing to help us, and sometimes the greatest discoveries we make are not only about the secrets around us, but about the people who choose to stand beside us.

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