Dear Reader

Dear Reader Column - May 27, 2025

Dear Reader,

Today's guest is Dr. James Lacey, the professor of strategy at the Marine Corps War College. He also holds the Horner Chair of War Studies at Marine Corps University. Prior to taking this position, he was a widely published senior analyst at the Institute for Defense Analyses in Washington, D.C. His previous works include: Rome: A Strategy for Empire, the New York Times bestselling The First Clash, and several others.

In his new book, The Year God Died: Jesus and the Roman Empire in 33 AD Lacey explains how the events in Rome drove events in Judea--which is directly linked to Jesus' crucifixion. He uncovers a vibrant and rich world, but one still coming to grips with the reality of Roman power.

Reach out to James and welcome him to the book club: [email protected] Authors are inspired when they hear from readers.

The Power of a Smile

As I entered a square filled with Iraqis of all ages almost surrounding a battalion of the famed 101st Airborne Division. After nearly forty-eight hours of running firefights, the soldiers were grimy and exhausted. But their mission today was a happy one; they were being sent to the Mosque of 'Alī --the most holy mosque in the Shia faith--to secure a local Iman, asking for American protection from Saddam Hussien’s troops,

As I entered the square it felt almost festive. Children darted through rubble, men waved, and women peeked from doorways as the paratroopers. Yet the mood pivoted in an instant, as groups of Saddam loyalists shouted that the Americans were there to desecrate the mosque. The crowd suddenly turned hostile and the first rocks flew into the American perimeter.

I watched nearby rifleman flip their weapon selectors from safe to fire. The silent Americans made no threatening gestures, but they were clearly ready to meet an assault with overwhelming violence. The situation was edging toward a massacre.

Lieutenant Colonel Chris Hughes, stepped into the breach. Snatching a loudspeaker from an interpreter, he shouted: "Second Battalion soldiers, take a knee. Weapons pointing down." Instantly, every soldier obeyed as though the order had been drilled for years. In one fluid motion an entire line of infantrymen sank to one knee, rifle barrels pointed down toward the dust. It was then that I heard an order that still amazes me. Colonel Hughes, shouted one more time: "Second Battalion soldiers—smile."

The soldiers beside me looked at one another in disbelief. Yet within seconds cracked lips stretched into crooked, dust-caked grins. The impact on the crowd was almost instantaneous. The chants and shouts stopped as fury gave way to confusion, and confusion to hesitant curiosity. For five minutes the soldiers stayed kneeling and smiling as the crowd’s anger bled. Amazingly, the crowd began to advance, smiling and reaching out to touch the Americans,

Colonel Hughes waited for his moment, and then shouted to his men to, "stand up and keep smiling" When they had done so, he announced, "we are going to turn around and walk out of here smiling."

In war there are tragedies that are too many to count and I knew I’d almost witnessed one that would have resounded throughout the region for decades. But instead, the rage of a crowd about to test itself against American firepower was dissipated by the iron-discipline of soldiers who opted to kneel and smile rather than shoot.

-- James Lacey

Reach out to James and welcome him to the book club: [email protected] 

Thanks for reading with me. It's good to read with friends.

Dear Reader Column - May 20, 2025

Dear Reader,

Today's guest is Jilly Gagnon, the author of the brand new novel, What if It's You? Everyone wonders about the one that got away...and thanks to an alternate reality tech project, one woman will get the chance to actually find out.

Jilly has also written, Scenes of the Crime, All Dressed Up, and the young adult novel #famous. Her humor writing, personal essays, and op-eds have appeared in Newsweek, Elle, Vanity Fair, Boston magazine, and McSweeney’s Internet Tendency, among others. She lives in Salem, Massachusetts with her family and two black cats.

Reach out to Jilly via: https://jillygagnon.com/contact/ and please welcome Jilly to the book club. Authors are inspired when they hear from readers.

 

I've always been a visual person, and as a student, it was a huge advantage. Whether I was writing a blue book for an English class, or trying to memorize the 17 distinct morphological changes to the skeleton that distinguished a specific dinosaur species from its forebears, I simply had to 'see' it. On my mental film reel, the story would flicker past, allowing me to zero in on the information I needed.

Eventually it came time to fulfill my college physics requirement. While the class itself was surprisingly visual--the professor loved setting up elaborate Rube Goldberg machines that transferred energy and created reactions and generally displayed basic physics principals--when I sat down to turn the various equations for acceleration and force and speed into an elegant solution I saw…nothing. Jumbles of Greek letter constants whose purpose I couldn't wrap my head around. Ideas that I could put words to (the speed of... speed, somehow?) but which 'meant' nothing, at least not to me.

I went to the late-night study sessions, plodded through the problem sets week after week, but all of it just... slid right off my brain, at a constantly increasing velocity. I think.

One day, leading up to finals, I was hunched over my half-eaten dinner, struggling to get my head around the (truly basic) concepts for the umpteenth time when my friend Ian set down his tray across from me. After some small talk, I showed him what had me so confounded.

By this point in the semester, the basic concepts were being applied to the movement of stars and planets, describing the way the universe itself grows, and at a growing rate. If I'd been lost before, I was--forgive the pun--out in space at this point.

But Ian--an astrophysics major--took one look at the book and his eyes lit up. He started explaining the concepts to me, first slowly, using metaphors I could actually understand, then with increasing energy, hands moving through the air as he described the motions of the cosmos, how incredible the formulas I was poring over were in reality, the picture they formed for him.

I didn't understand the story, not entirely, but for the first time I realized that's what it was: a story. Something beautiful and sweeping, something Ian could see when he glanced at the alphabet soup of equations.

I never quite understood the picture, but knowing it was there, hidden behind the veil of equations, made physics, if not comprehensible, beautiful.

-- Jilly Gagnon

https://jillygagnon.com/contact/

Thanks for reading with me. It's so good to read with friends.

Suzanne Beecher
[email protected]

Dear Reader Column - May 14, 2025

Dear Reader,

Today's guest, Sarah Arthur is a fun-loving speaker and best-selling author of numerous books for teens and adults. After 30 years working with students (everything from church youth director to middle school secretary to substitute teacher), she can play a mean game of Four Square--but don't make her eat pizza from a box. Ever. More recently, her bestselling YA fantasy debut Once a Queen kicked off the award-nominated Carrick Hall Novels, including fan favorite Once a Castle: Book 2 and the forthcoming Once a Crown: Book 3 (January 2026).

Sarah welcomes messages on Instagram at @HolyDreaming

You could be a winner. Three winners will receive copies of both Once a Queen and Once a Castle. To enter the giveaway visit: waterbrookmultnomah.com/dearreader

Sarah welcomes messages on Instagram at @HolyDreaming

 

"Storied Affirmations"

One of my favorite corners of social media is where people post the daily affirmations they say with their kids. A father and son recite their own hero's creed in the car on the way to school. A teacher raps with his students so they'll never forget his belief in them. A coach chants a call-and-response with her players about who the real winners are, not just in sports but in life.

These examples remind me of the comforting quotes my parents said with us each morning, long before affirmations were trendy. It's a tradition my husband has carried on with our own middle school sons before they head out the door--except theirs is in the form of a Q&A.

Lately I've found myself thinking about the ways great books have provided similar affirmations for me, as a reader. Anne of Green Gables, for instance: "Isn't it nice to think that tomorrow is a new day with no mistakes in it yet?" Or the bishop to Jean Valjean in Les Miserables: "Do not forget, never forget, that you have promised [to be] a better man." And one of my favorites, from A Wrinkle in Time, when Mrs. Whatsit tells the preteen protagonist, "Stay angry, little Meg... You will need all your anger now."

I'd be a different person without storied affirmations like these.

But I didn't realize how much they'd become embedded in my life till I began reading drafts of my novels to our sons. Without realizing it, I'd included moments of dialogue in which a loving adult utters the words a young person needs to hear. Not in a heavy-handed way, but with instinctual simplicity. As if the quotable pithiness was the point.

So the other morning, after the boys recited their usual Q&A with Dad before school, I gently placed my hands on the eighth grader's shoulders.

"What are you a part of?" I asked.

He glanced up, momentarily puzzled. Then his expression cleared. I could tell he remembered those evenings when I read drafts of my novels-in-progress to him and his brother. The boys would listen, enrapt, and then offer honest feedback--much of which I'd incorporate into future drafts.

And now, in this moment, he recognized the lines.

With a grin, he answered, "A very great story."

"And who can take that from you?"

"No one."

I hugged him. He hugged me back, all skinny arms and bony elbows, before walking out the door.

And guess what?

No one can take that from me either.

-- Sarah Arthur

I welcome messages on my Instagram at @HolyDreaming

Thanks for reading with me. It's so good to read with friends.

Suzanne Beecher
[email protected]

Dear Reader Column - May 6, 2025

Dear Reader,

Today's guest author, Virginia Evans is from the northeastern United States. She attended James Madison University for her bachelor's in English literature, as well as Trinity College in Dublin, Ireland, for her master's of philosophy in creative writing. Virginia lives in Winston-Salem, North Carolina, with her husband, two children, and her Red Labrador, Brigid.

The Correspondent, Virginia's new book is: filled with knowledge that only comes from a life fully lived, The Correspondent is a gem of a novel about the power of finding solace in literature and connection with people we might never meet in person. It is about the hubris of youth and the wisdom of old age, and the mistakes and acts of kindness that occur during a lifetime.

Please reach out to Virginia and welcome her to the book club. Authors are inspired when they hear from readers. [email protected]

 

I never ended up living in New York City.

I suppose my determination to move there was out of some combination of the idealism that writers live in small Manhattan apartments–three-foot square kitchens, beds folding up into walls, a desk in the corner, books stacked to the ceiling, cigarettes--and growing up in the suburbs. I longed for the busy, bright energy of a city. Not 'a city,', but 'the greatest city on earth.' I was going to live in New York.

When my husband and I were newly married and without much money we found inexpensive flights to LaGuardia and an inexpensive hotel room in late January. We explored the city together for the first time, freezing, whispering in the flagship Tiffany's, seeing Wicked from in the highest seats with a partially-blocked view, going on jogs through Central Park. We ate cheap. We had a small, fold-up Subway map, which we studied in the hotel before setting out, not wanting to look like the tourists we were.

Returning every few years, we got to know places we liked to revisit-—a corner of Central Park, a specific bakery, a bookstore–and every time back, we found new favorites. Holidaying in Manhattan was like having a far-off friend, and when you meet up occasionally it's a happy reunion, stakes are low, only fun. My dream of living in New York faded. Coming to the city as a visitor was enough.

When my novel sold, I went to New York for the first time with a purpose beyond exploring. I was there for work, meeting with my agent and publishing team to strategize and discuss my novel. I was alone, walking the streets I'd come to know with a shallow but congenial familiarity, but with this wonderful reason for being there. I had my own small 'place' in the city, on the fourteenth floor of the Penguin Random House building where my book was coming to life.

When my son turned ten I took him to Manhattan. We retraced some of the paths that were familiar to me, but we made new ones, too. We took the Staten Island Ferry past the Statue of Liberty, stayed on Roosevelt Island and frequented the aerial tramway across the East River, ate calamari at the newest Jean-Georges concept. I was a confident guide, and he regarded me with satisfaction when I navigated the subway without hesitation, and I squeezed his hand when he said to me on the flight home, "I'm going to live in New York City one day."

-- Virginia Evans

[email protected]

Thanks for reading with me. It's so good to read with friends.

Suzanne Beecher
[email protected]

Dear Reader Column - April 29, 2025

Dear Reader,

Today's guest is Annie Hartnett, author of Unlikely Animals, which won the Julia Ward Howe Prize for fiction and was longlisted for the Joyce Carol Oates Prize. She is also the author of Rabbit Cake, a finalist for the New England Book Award and a Kirkus Reviews best book of the year. Along with writer Tessa Fontaine, she co-runs the Accountability Workshops for writers, helping them commit to routines and embrace the long, slow, joyful, terrible process of doing the work. She lives in Massachusetts with her husband, daughter, and dog.

Annie's new novel is The Road to Tender Hearts a darkly comic and warm-hearted novel about an old man on a cross-country mission to reunite with his high school crush--bringing together his adult daughter, two orphaned kids, and a cat who can predict death.

You could win one of five copies of The Road to Tender Hearts. To enter the drawing send an email to: [email protected] Please be sure to include your preferred mailing address.

Please email a "Welcome to the book club" to Annie Hartnett: https://www.anniehartnett.com/contact

On Keeping Calm While Gardening (and Writing)

Last April, I handed in my novel manuscript to my editor and then I turned my attention outdoors. I didn't know how long it would be before she got back to me, and I needed to distract myself.

We had closed on a house in March, and I wanted to do something with the garden. Before we bought the house, we had already lived there for two years as renters, so it had been two summers of being completely overwhelmed by the large garden. The fenced-in plot of land was enormous, nearly all of it in full-sun, so I had a lot of room for weeds to grow.

But this year, I had friends with their own beautiful garden, who wanted to help me. "So much potential," they said. "You could do so much with this."

"It's too much," I said.

"You just need to get organized. Paths would help you," Rebecca said, the planner. "We could do stone paths."

Her husband, Brian, told me how much stone to order for the paths. "Get 5 yards," he said, a unit of measurement which meant nothing to me.

When the truck arrived, I could not believe they were going to leave a pile of rocks that size in my driveway. A mountain. But Brian showed up in the middle of his workday to oversee the  delivery. "I knew you'd get overwhelmed," he said. And then he told me to get a shovel and the wheelbarrow.

Over the next few weeks, the garden project reminded me of how it is to work on a novel. A little at a time. If you get overwhelmed, make the project smaller, like making the garden smaller, creating paths, focusing on certain sections. "Keep calm, one chapter at a time," I write every day in one column of a spreadsheet where I keep track of my plot and word count.

Rebecca told me not to worry if some plants die, that gardening is an experiment to see what works, which is pretty much what I tell my students writing novels and memoirs in the Accountability Workshops I run--that words are never wasted, everything is an experiment until you get it right. 

I often remind myself and my students: Lower the bar. Keep calm and do more with less. And yes, it helps so much if you have a few really good friends to keep you from getting overwhelmed by the massive pile of rocks (or words) in front of you.

-- Annie Hartnett

https://www.anniehartnett.com/contact

Enter to win one of five copies of The Road to Tender Hearts. Send an email to: [email protected] Please be sure to include your preferred mailing address.

Thanks for reading with me. It's so good to read with friends.

Suzanne Beecher
[email protected]

 

Dear Reader Column - April 22, 2025

Dear Reader,

Please welcome today's guest author, Jenn Todling, an author, speaker, executive coach, and adjunct instructor at the University of Denver as part of its Frontline Manager Leadership Program. As a retired audit partner at a global Big 4 accounting firm with over twenty years of professional services experience and a certified transformational leadership coach for more than ten years, Jenn helps her clients express their soul in their work and life. She currently resides near her hometown of Boulder, Colorado, with her husband (and dance partner), and young daughter. (Photo by Erin Waynick)

Dancing on My Own Two Feet is her debut memoir about how creativity can renew and transform a broken spirit. In it, she describes leaving her marriage and reconnecting with her love of dance, herself, and the possibility of finding new love.

Jenn is giving away copies of Dancing on My Own Two Feet to three winners. Email [email protected]

Please drop Jen a note and welcome her to our book club.

Leaping into the Unknown

A year ago today, I took a leap into the unknown, choosing to retire from a twenty-year career in public accounting. It was the only professional life I’d known—one that sustained me through personal transitions, including finding myself again after my divorce. I had worked tirelessly to get to where I was. As the first in my immediate family to graduate from college, I was driven to succeed. I excelled in school, earned a role at a Big 4 firm right out of college, and eventually achieved the coveted position of partner—something fewer than 1% of accountants attain.

Yet after two decades of sacrifice, my heart began pulling me elsewhere. The pandemic was a wake-up call, reminding me of life’s fragility and sparking the idea that I was meant for something different. I resisted for a long time. I was afraid of what people might think if I walked away from the success I had worked so hard for, and the security it brought me. I didn’t want to disappoint others—or myself. And of course, my six-figure income was a tether, anchoring me to the financial obligations that wouldn’t go away if I did.

But over time, the whispers from my soul became impossible to ignore. In still, quiet moments in nature—on a beach, a mountain, or in the desert—I felt a deep desire to explore my creativity and help others live boldly. When I finally gave notice, my fears dissolved. My heart was at peace, and I sensed that whatever lay ahead was exactly what I needed.

Do I miss the paycheck? Of course. But this past year, I’ve taken a sabbatical, spent a precious summer with my daughter before she started kindergarten, and returned to my roots near Boulder, Colorado, after years on the East Coast. I traveled to France for a writing retreat, taught leadership, coached emerging leaders, and worked with inspiring women on new ventures. My husband and I even returned to what connected us by teaching ballroom dance to our community. And soon, I’ll officially be a published author, the culmination of this incredible year of transition and discovery.

Here’s what I’ve learned on this journey: Fear often holds us back from our dreams. But it starts to lose its grip the moment we take action toward what calls us. Life is fleeting; tomorrow isn’t guaranteed. So, how do you want to make the most of it?

I’m cheering you on—because the world needs who you were made to be.

-- Jenn Todling

Jenn is giving away copies of Dancing on My Own Two Feet to three winners. Email [email protected]

Thanks for reading with me. It's so good to read with friends.

Suzanne Beecher
[email protected]

Dear Reader Column - April 15, 2025

Dear Reader,

Helen Rappaport fell in love with Russian at school and after completing Russian Special Studies at Leeds University, worked as a freelance editor in academic publishing. She became a full-time professional historian in 1998 with her first published book Joseph Stalin: A Biographical Companion.

Since then, she has produced 17 titles ranging from late 18th-century Russia through the reign of Queen Victoria, to late Imperial Russia and the 1917 Revolution.

She is now working on her 18th book. Her new title is The Rebel Romanov...the story of a courageous young Imperial Grand Duchess who scandalized Europe in search of freedom.

In 1795, Catherine the Great of Russia was in search of a bride for her grandson Constantine, who stood third in line to her throne. In an eerie echo of her own story, Catherine selected an innocent young German princess, Julie of Saxe-Coburg, aunt of the future Queen Victoria. Though Julie had everything a young bride could wish for, she was alone in a court dominated by an aging empress and riven with rivalries, plotting, and gossip―not to mention her brute of a husband. She longed to leave Russia and her disastrous marriage, but her family in Germany refused to allow her to do so.

You could win one of three copies of The Rebel Romanov Send an email with your preferred shipping address (in case you're a winner) to: [email protected]

Reach out to Helen: https://helenrappaport.com/contact/

Please welcome back to the book club, author Helen Rappaport...

Over the course of researching and writing several books that have focused on Russia, the Romanovs or the 1917 Revolution, I have found it necessary to draw on all my language skills, even dormant ones. Since the age of 14, I have--to varying levels of proficiency–studied French, German, Russian, Spanish, Italian and Bulgarian. This has proved extremely valuable in my writing, for, on every book, in one way or another I have had to conjure up my long dormant knowledge of a language in order to access valuable sources.

The challenge of research in foreign languages goes with the territory for any historian who steps outside of their own native history. In covering the late-18th to early-20th century in Europe, I have had to trawl far and wide for new, forgotten and overlooked sources beyond those in English. For it is in obscure foreign-language sources that one often uncovers wonderful new material, that proves to be crucial in bringing fresh insights to the historical narrative one is writing.

The greatest range of language research I ever embarked on was for my 2018 book 'The Race to Save the Romanovs,' where, in covering the attitude of the royal houses of Europe to the plight of the Russian imperial family, I needed, in addition to my usual languages, to access material in Norwegian, Swedish, Danish and Dutch. At which point, I hired somebody to help. In such situations, this is a necessary expense.

Although Russian is my main language, I thankfully have very good French, which is essential, for in Russia throughout the 19th century the aristocracy all spoke fluent French, some better than they did their own native Russian. In the case of Julie of Saxe-Coburg, a central key resource were the letters she wrote and received from friends and family in French; her Russian was poor and her German spelling and grammar eccentric. Thank heavens for those letters in French, because any historian who has had experience of it, will tell you that having to tackle primary sources in old German Kurrentschrift is one of the biggest nightmares in any project relating to 18th –19th century Germany.

This was the challenge that I was faced with when I first embarked on research for 'The Rebel Romanov.' German was by far my weakest language; indeed, my knowledge was rudimentary. I began my research in published German sources painfully slowly, dictionary in hand, inching my way along. I knew I would need help, especially in accessing and deciphering the arcane German material held in the Staatsarchiv, Coburg. It was expensive, but the expert skills of a specialist revealed many new insights into Julie’s story that I could never have hoped to reach otherwise and which transformed the narrative.

-- Helen Rappaport

https://helenrappaport.com/contact/

You could win one of three copies of The Rebel Romanov Send an email with your preferred shipping address (in case you're a winner) to: [email protected] 

Thanks for reading with me. It's so good to read with friends.

Suzanne Beecher
[email protected]

Dear Reader Column - April 9, 2025

Dear Reader,

Lydia Reeder, today's guest, is the author of the award-winning Dust Bowl Girls: The Inspiring Story of the Team That Barnstormed Its Way to Basketball Glory, a thrilling depiction of the birth of women's competitive basketball in the 1930s.

Her new book, The Cure for Women: Dr. Mary Putnam Jacobi and the Challenge to Victorian Medicine That Change Women's Lives Forever, reveals the nineteenth-century origin of the pseudo-science that supposedly connects all of women's ills to her reproductive system. It tells the story of the women doctors and suffragists, led by Dr. Mary Putnam Jacobi, who fought back against this attempt to control women's bodies and lives.

Enter to win one of three copies of The Cure for Women. Send an email with your preferred shipping address to [email protected]

You can drop Lydia an email at [email protected]

Visit her website at lydiareeder.com.

Please join me in welcoming Lydia Reeder to the book club…

Grandma and Me

As a kid growing up in Oklahoma City, I embarked on lively adventures with my grandmother, who loved to drive. She took my three siblings and me on many long excursions to magical places like Yellowstone and the Grand Canyon. However, one of the most exciting trips she and I ever went on occurred when Mom sent us to pick up a carryout order for dinner.

It was a warm spring evening, and pitch-dark clouds gathered overhead. The moist air had a sharp, fresh smell. Thunder rumbled as I slid across the front seat of Grandma's Pontiac sedan. A strong gust of wind upended several patio chairs in our backyard. Grandma tried to help me with my seatbelt, but I pushed her hands away. At ten years old, I could do it myself.

Just then, Mom came running out the front door carrying my raincoat. "Remember, four Cokes, two Sprites, and one Dr. Pepper," Mom said. " Three extra-large fries." As she talked, plump raindrops splatted against her forehead and arms.

"We'll be fine," Grandma said.

Mom frowned up at the sky and then rushed back inside.

After getting herself settled, Grandma backed out of the driveway and onto the road. We were on our way to Long John Silver's. Even a rainstorm would not halt our quest for greasy fast food.

The wind sang against the windshield wipers as we drove. Thunder rattled, and lightning brightened the dusky sky. When we pulled into the left-turn lane at an intersection, the rain, illuminated by our headlights, was streaking sideways. Small marble-sized hailstones smashed against the glass. Through the storm, I could see the neon sign flashing Long John Silver's a block away.

At the green arrow, Grandma accelerated into the turn. Suddenly, a windblast scooped up the car, and we rose a foot off the ground. It lasted a few seconds before we were set back down. The next thing, headlights shone in our eyes from an oncoming car. Grandma deftly steered back into the right lane. Seconds later, she pulled into an empty space and parked at the restaurant.

"Did you feel that?" she said breathlessly. "I think we got sideswiped by a tornado."

My heart was churning, but I felt elated. We exited the car, retrieved our food, and made it back home safely. Ever since, I've remembered how thrilling ordinary life could be with Grandma.

-- Lydia Reeder

[email protected]

Enter to win one of three copies of The Cure for Women. Send an email with your preferred shipping address to [email protected]

Thanks for reading with me. It's so good to read with friends.

Dear Reader Column - April 1, 2025

Dear Reader,

Please welcome Aisha Saeed to the book club. She is the New York Times bestselling author of books for all ages. Her adult debut, The Matchmaker, a romantic suspenseful mystery, hits shelves next week. You can find out more about her at aishasaeed.com or follow her on Instagram @aishacs

Please welcome Aisha to the book club...

I Did Not Smile On My Wedding Day

Growing up, I wasn't one to daydream about my wedding day. The marriage, yes, but the actual wedding itself where I was expected to be a perfect Pakistani bride seated next to my groom while hundreds of people stared at us on the raised platform while discussing our choice of outfits, venue, and the menu sounded like the sort of thing nightmares were made of. Had it been up to me, I'd have chosen a quiet exchange of vows on the beach with only our immediate family and best friends by our side. But at twenty-two years old, raised in a close-knit South Asian family, I knew from a young age that my wedding day was not up to me. So once I made the decision to marry my husband, my family quickly got to work arranging the rest. My father chose the wedding hall. My mother wrote up the guest list. My aunt selected my bridal gown, her husband hand couriered it all the way to Orlando from Pakistan. I told myself that if my family wanted a 'Big Fat Desi Wedding', if it made them happy, so be it. I would smile and let it be.

Unfortunately, weeks after my wedding, when the photo proofs arrived in the mail, I learned to my horror that I had, in fact, not smiled at all. Flipping through the pictures, I saw my velvet gown, the golden tikka on my forehead, and a frown on my face the size of Montana. Mortified, I boxed up the photos and promptly put them away.

It's been over twenty years since my wedding day. The other day, while visiting my parents I stumbled upon that box of wedding proofs tucked in the back of a closet. My kids were eager to take a look and I braced myself. But instead of mortification, I found myself smiling at the photos. The memories. I looked at this girl who had no idea all that was to come, but who had known then the truth I still know now: that the key to my marriage wasn't in the way one particular day happened to go; all that followed was what truly mattered. And while I hadn't smiled on my wedding day I'm grateful for all the smiles since.

-- Aisha Saeed

Instagram @aishacs

Thanks for reading with me. It's so good to read with friends.

Dear Reader Column - March 4, 2025

Dear Reader,

Today's guest author, Jinwoo Chong is the author of the novel Flux, a finalist for the PEN/Hemingway and VCU Cabell First Novel awards, a New York Times Book Review Editors’ Choice, and named a best book of the year by Esquire, GQ, and Cosmopolitan. His short stories and other work have appeared in The Southern Review, Guernica, The Rumpus, Literary Hub, Chicago Quarterly Review, and Electric Literature. He lives in New York City.

Jinwoo's new novel is I Leave it Up to You, a dazzling novel about love, family, and the art of sushithat asks: What if you could return to the point of a fateful choice, wiser than before, and find the courage to forge a new path?

A coma can change a man, but the world Jack Jr. awakens to is one he barely recognizes. His advertising job is history, his Manhattan apartment is gone, and the love of his life has left him behind. He's been asleep for two years; with no one to turn to, he realizes it's been ten years since he last saw his family.

Reach out to Jinwoo via: https://jinwoochong.com/contact

Welcome to the book club, Jinwoo Chong!

On Saturdays, my parents would wake my brother and me early. We left the house before nine and drove an hour and a half to Fort Lee, the Korean-American conclave located around the New Jersey end of the George Washington Bridge. There, my brother and I were strung along for a full day of activities: grocery shopping in the banchan shops that sold staples like kimchi, fried anchovies, pork and fish jeon shaped into patties and pan fried in oil, haircuts for the boys in the family and color for my mother, late lunch of naengmyeon and dumplings, then the near-two-hour drive back through traffic, where, if we were lucky, there would be enough time for an hour or two of television before I was shuttled off to bed.

Reader, I hated Fort Lee. It claimed almost every Saturday of my childhood life from age six to twelve. If it wasn’t a haircut, it was shopping for clothes. If it wasn’t groceries, it was browsing the plant nurseries or textile shops for blankets and furniture. Sometimes, I was allowed a toy purchase, something anime- or manwha-themed from the trinket store that I didn’t know what to do with, longing instead for Harry Potter Lego sets or Magic Tree House books.

Jarring as well were the storefronts and signs entirely in Korean, the throngs of Korean people going about their own errands, congregating in churches, filing into the restaurants for meals. In my school, I was one of a sparse handful of Asian students. Being among so many of them was new and disconcerting.

As I’ve grown older, I’m embarrassed to have resented my heritage the way that I did. I’ve understood in the decade or two since then that my dad, who moved to the States at 17, is probably reminded of his own childhood while walking around the storefronts and ordering off the menu. Over time I visited other Koreatowns and felt disappointed in the dearth of options, how small they seemed. I’d been spoiled by a place that is, in actuality, exceedingly rare.

Today, my parents live even closer to Fort Lee than before. They say they will never move, that the food there beats anything in New York’s K-Town. When I visit them at home, I ask often to take our own little trip to Fort Lee. There, I eat my fill, practice reading the signage and the menu to keep up my limited language ability, and remind myself that there is no word for homesickness for a home away from home.

-- Jinwoo Chong

https://jinwoochong.com/contact

Thanks for reading with me. It's so good to read with friends.

Suzanne Beecher
[email protected]