I love to say I told you so
My dear friend Phyllis FINALLY publishes her beautiful first novel
It has always been my belief that writers are born, and not made, that they come into the world with a certain disposition, that they share certain habits and needs.
Long before I became a published writer, I wrote letters. They were my vehicle, my mode of expression, a way of letting out all that was inside me. Many of those letters were sent to my best friend, Phyllis, whom I met when I was eighteen years old. She collected many of those letters into a book and gifted it to me on one of my birthdays. It was just about the best gift I ever got. It was proof positive that someone REALLY believed in me as a writer.
Now, Phyllis happens to be a fantastic writer, but one who would not win first prize in believing in herself. She self- published essays on her website, phyllisflorin.com, and you can read them there, but be forewarned: if you read one, you’ll want to read them all. They are truly terrific: funny, poignant, and, above all, honest. She got SO many compliments, SO much encouragement from people who read those essays, but she still didn’t try to get “really” published. Then she got an idea for a novel based on the life of her maternal great-grandmother. It’s set in Norway, and focuses on the idea of going to America. There are a lot of books about people coming to America. But what about the ones who stayed behind?
There is so much in this book: so much longing, so much heartbreak, so much beauty, maybe even something about generational trauma: Phyllis has always felt the weight of a something not quite belonging to her alone. I think that she has channeled the feelings of someone related to her in an utterly convincing way. She has contrasted conventional faith with fascinating ancient beliefs. She has shown the pulling effect of where you are contrasted with where you think you might want to be, and she has shown how hard it can be to make the choice to get there.
When Phyllis’s husband read the first draft of this book, he wept and told her how good he thought it was. When I read the draft, I did the same thing. The book was read by a high-powered agent who liked it very much and who suggested a few changes that Phyllis ended up not wanting to do. (see above for not believing in herself)
Well, now the book is done, self-published, out there for anyone who wants to read it. There’s a review on Amazon that talks about how Mettte’s first and true love wants to go to America, and he’s willing to send for her after he gets established there. But when the time comes, Mette doesn’t go, telling herself that she needs to stay in Norway because she’s her mother’s only child. But, as this reviewer says, “We all convince ourselves of what we need to believe. Yet sometimes the truth pops out in our inner game of Whack-a-Mole.”
I think it’s swell that at 77 years old, Phyllis is offering this beautiful work of art. I urge you to consider reading it. It’s available on Amazon for $10. (If I had the technical ability of an average chimpanzee, I would provide the link, but I don’t, so you’ll have to take the extra step. Think of it as exercise.) If you do read the book, I hope you’ll go to Phyllis’s website to tell her I was right.
I’m going to order it now. I have a letter story that I will forever regret. I’m guessing this happened when I was in my 30’s, so a long time ago. I’m 65 now. Anyway, I was home visiting my folks in Tucson where I grew up. My dad had turned my childhood bedroom into his office and every time I visited he wanted me to look through my things and do something with them. This time I opened a good sized box and inside were very neatly sorted stacks of letters that I’d received starting in my middle school years through college. Each bundle was organized by the friend who sent them to me. I was a big letter writer back in the day. I read a few letters and then decided to just throw the whole box away, with all those letters so nicely organized inside. To this day I shudder at my decision. At the very least, I should have given each of those friends the stack of letters they wrote to me. They were like a journal, recording their lives from a tender age of 12 away at summer camp through the years away at college. The irony of this is that I’m a collector and have a hard time getting rid of things. I don’t know what possessed me that day. I can still visualize opening up that huge trash bin and placing the box inside. Flash forward to 2014, both my parents are now deceased and my sisters and I are sorting through boxes and boxes of papers. You can guess that I kept every letter I wrote to my parents and they had saved. There was a large stack of them from when I was at sleep away camp for 8 long weeks. I was so homesick. Each letter started with “only 45 days more” “only 22 days more”…you get the picture. Another stack of letters was from the year I spent in Denmark as a study abroad student. I was 20. I also kept a stack of letters that my grandma wrote to my mom back in the ‘70’s. They are all in Romanian so I can’t even read them! They are written on that super thin blue tissue and are pages and pages long. I had a cousin translate one for me. The letter basically read like a conversation, my grandma telling my mom about her daily activities, some gossip, things like that. My grandma lived in Mexico and my mom was in Tucson at the time. I also found a bundle of letters that my dad wrote to his mom when he was stationed in China during WWII. My grandma was in Chicago. I have yet to read most of these letters BUT I have them all. I take some comfort in that 😌
Ordered! I can’t wait to read it! I have always loved the way you encourage and promote people and causes you believe in, Elizabeth. Thank you for sharing Phyllis with us!