N. J. Mastro explores the tumultuous life of Mary Wollstonecraft in Solitary Walker

Mary Wollstonecraft is perhaps best known for two accomplishments: A Vindication of the Rights of Woman (1792), a treatise that caused her to be remembered as the first feminist; and her status as the mother of Mary Shelley, author of Frankenstein.

As significant as these are, Wollstonecraft’s life was extraordinary for many other reasons. N.J. Mastro’s biographical novel explores them in depth, lavishing equal time on her innermost feelings and outward actions, as well as the tumult stirred up when they conflicted.

Wollstonecraft didn’t just talk the talk: she walked the walk, serving as an example of her belief that if women were given more than the limited education that society deemed appropriate, their intellectual and social development would flourish. Following an effective short prologue in which she tries and fails to protect her mother from her drunk father’s abuse, we meet Mary at twenty-eight, just as she’s being let go from her position as governess to an aristocratic Irish family’s daughters. The girls adore her, but her teachings are too broad and academic for their mother’s liking.

This setback spurs Mary to “make her own way in the world as a solitary woman,” heading to London to “live by her pen” in England’s literary capital. To earn a living, she accepts an invitation to review books for a progressive new journal – at a time when reviewing was competitive, well-paid, and mostly done by men!

Mary’s passions spring to life: her absorption into the lively community at the home of her publisher Joseph Johnson, where she holds her own at dinner conversations when she’s the only woman present; her determination to share her ideas through writing, despite Mr. Johnson’s gentle advice that she must publish anonymously; her growing irritation about the impositions of her family, always requesting money she’s hard-pressed to supply; and her curiosity about the dark eroticism of the oil painting The Nightmare, as well as its artist. She enjoys male friendships, but with many examples of marriage’s negative effect on women weighing on her mind, Mary guards herself when it comes to romantic and sexual relationships. The depth of her emotions, once they surface, catches her unaware.

The novel proceeds chronologically, focusing on key periods of Mary’s life and how her character transformed. Some of her exploits would be considered significant in any day and age, such as moving abroad to observe a new republic’s violent birth firsthand and directing her own solo trip through parts of remote Scandinavia. Mary’s time in France is especially dangerous given her nationality. Augmenting the stress and unease are the fraught personal circumstances in which Mary finds herself.

Mastro’s writing is skillful and precise, creating descriptions of settings and characters that linger. She has an eye for atmospheric details: “Everyone’s clothes felt damp; even the pages of their books had gone limp,” she writes of a hot, rainy summer day in Bristol. Nearly all the characters are historically documented; if you’re familiar with the period, you may figure out which one(s) are fictional. All is explained in an author’s note. This is a well-researched, admirable fictional portrait that will leave you amazed at the daring and vigorous way Mary moved through her world.

Solitary Walker was published by Black Rose Writing in February (reviewed from an ARC copy).

The Long and Winding Road, an essay by Lorraine Norwood, author of The Solitary Sparrow

Continuing with the Small Press Month focus, I'm pleased to welcome Lorraine Norwood to Reading the Past with an essay about her long journey to publishing her debut novel. What do you do when you've chosen a compelling subject and have developed your fiction writing craft but find it impossible to break into the trend-focused market of traditional publication?  Please read on, and please check out Lorraine's website for more information on her medieval historical fiction series, The Margaret Chronicles.

~

The Long and Winding Road

Lorraine Norwood

I published my debut book in 2024 after years of writing. I submitted hundreds of queries, attended conferences, was accepted by an agent, submitted to the Big 5, got turned down, submitted to smaller houses, got accepted by a small publisher but said "no" because the contract was lousy, suffered the death of my biggest fan— my mother, got Covid and cancer, was released by my agent, pivoted to a reputable hybrid publisher—and then got accepted. Hurray! It only took me 38 years.

It was a long and winding road. Hard, with very deep potholes.

Why, you might ask, did you not shove the book in a drawer and forget writing? Well, I’ve had lots of jobs in my life in order to pay the electric bill but the job I do best is writing. And it’s the one that gives me the most joy. I didn’t give up because I couldn’t NOT do it. Even though it didn’t pay the electric bill.

Since the first day my main character jumped into my head, I’ve seen a huge shift in the gatekeepers, a shift that has made it difficult for newbies to break into the traditional world of publishing.

Fourteen years ago I attended the HNS conference (my first) in San Diego and heard a group of editors and agents describe the chaotic changes in the traditional publishing world as the “new Wild Wild West.” I couldn’t be bothered with what the cowboys in New York City were doing. I had a book to get out. I had been working on it for years. All I had to do was get an agent at the conference, submit to the big boys, and voila! it was going to be a hit. Historical fiction readers were going to love it. I would be wined and dined, accompanied on book tours by my marketing agent, and get carpal tunnel syndrome from signing so many books.

Well, why NOT me? I did the work. Sat my butt in the chair. Worked on the craft. Got an agent. I rewrote sections of my manuscript for my agent, changed plotlines for prospective editors, and deleted scenes for editors who wanted the book sanitized. The negative responses went like this:

•  The writing is top-notch, but nobody reads historical fiction anymore.
•  It’s great writing, but it’s not saleable.
•  Loved your characters, but we’re concerned about getting a return on our investment.

I did all the things you’re supposed to do and still NADA. After five years of trying, my agent, bless her heart, apologized and let me go.

That was the lowest, deepest pothole.

Jump to 2023. Traditional publishing was still not home on the range. If anything it was wilder than anybody predicted. Where were the chummy editor/writer consultations? Where were the book tours? Where were the marketing teams? Where were the new authors? Why were the big boys putting out the same people over and over again? And how, in all this chaos, with 2.2 million (and some say 3 million) books published yearly (according to UNESCO), can an author ever hope to climb to the top of the heap?

The truth is, you can’t. To think otherwise is delusional. At least that’s what a book coach and influencer told me during a Zoom call attended by hundreds of writers from across the globe. “You are delusional,” she said to me. Well, maybe she didn’t actually call ME delusional, just my thinking. Same thing. It hurt my feelings. But I realize now she was right. Except, maybe I wasn’t so much delusional as outdated and naive. I was waiting for others to take charge of my destiny, instead of me.

My book is NOT: historical fantasy, speculative historical fiction, historical crime, a retelling of Greek myths or historical romantasy. It’s not anything that the publishing powerful say they want.

author Lorraine Norwood

My book is the story of one girl’s dogged pursuit to be the first female physician in England specializing in the care of women. The book is heavy on common people and light on the nobility. There aren’t any Tudors for another 200 years. The book is bloody, realistic, and gruesome in places. In fact, Goodreads contains this content warning: Abortion, miscarriage, death, misogyny, racial discrimination, gruesome medical procedures, and this review, “While I loved the grittiness of the story, a few scenes were a bit too crude for my reading preferences.”

Well, as the man says, “The past is a foreign country. They do things differently there.” Like die from childbed fever.

I now had a choice. I could spend more years of my life querying for an agent, querying the major and minor publishers, and waiting . . . and waiting or . . .

I was now 73 years old. I didn’t have time to wait.

I took an intense course on self-publishing. Self-publishing, no longer the red-headed stepchild of the author’s world, has gotten easier and more user friendly. But I decided my time could be spent more wisely by writing while I paid others to produce the book. After a lot of research and consultation with writer friends, I pivoted to hybrid publishing. One year later my book was born and out in the world.

At the recent History Quill 2025 virtual conference, panelists agreed that today traditional and indie publishing must go beyond mere writing and printing a book; multiple formats are increasingly important along with newsletters, blogs, email lists, social branding and authority on a subject.

And you thought all you had to do was write. Well, not anymore.

So, I’ll leave you with a few thoughts about the long and winding road.

There are many paths to publishing today. That’s the good news. You can send your work to agents or to small presses that don’t require an agent. You can send your work to hybrid presses or you can self-publish.

Do you have five years? Do you want to put it out there and get rejected or languish in a slush pile? Or do you want to see it out in the world in a year or possibly less?

For those of us who are "of a certain age," there is no question. We can’t wait. The finished book—that is, the book that has been through beta readers, a developmental editor, a proofreader, a cover artist, and typographer—needs to be born as quickly as possible.

If you really want to do it, don’t wait. You’ll wait yourself into the grave. Morbid? Yes. But true. Sh*t happens. If you wait, it’s going to happen anyway. Don’t wait.

~

Lorraine Norwood is a North Carolina native living in the Blue Ridge Mountains with her 14-year-old yellow Lab who thinks food is more interesting than writing. Lorraine is working on The Margaret Chronicles, an historical fiction series set in 14th century England and France. The first of the series, The Solitary Sparrow, was published in 2024. She is hard at work on the sequel, A Pelican in the Wilderness. 

Lorraine worked as a journalist in print and television for over 20 years before living the dream at the University of York in York, UK, where she earned a master’s degree in medieval archaeology. She has participated in excavations in York and at other sites in England, including a leper hospital. 

She is a member of the Women’s Fiction Writers Association and the Historical Novel Society. She is happy that at long last, after two marriages, two children, twelve jobs, three college degrees, and twenty-three moves, she has a room of her own in which to write. 

The need for speed: Emma Donoghue's The Paris Express imagines the lead-up to a historic train disaster

On the morning of October 22, 1895, the Paris Express leaves the town of Granville in Normandy for its seven-hour, ten-minute trip to the capital. Unbeknownst to its many passengers, the train is hurtling toward a crashing halt. Donoghue (Learned by Heart, 2023) superbly portrays the lead-up to the Montparnasse derailment, a disaster memorialized in astounding photographs, as experienced by travelers of diverse nationalities and social classes.

Among them are a mixed-race American painter aspiring to greater achievements, an Algerian coffee-seller, a young boy bravely journeying alone, a female physiology student who observes classic signs of disease in a teenage girl in her car, and married workmen who enjoy a unique partnership. Quietly, an anarchist on board weighs the right moment to strike.

Always balancing safety with keeping on schedule, crewmen feel pressured to make up any lost time. The pacing ramps up further midway through, the atmosphere tense.

Donoghue’s particular forte lies in showing how confined circumstances shape interactions. Her characterization is a marvel as she dexterously yet efficiently illustrates people’s outward appearances and innermost desires. In her hands, the novel’s long-ago setting becomes an exciting place buzzing with fresh life and technological ideas on the cusp of a new century.

The Paris Express will be published by Summit Books, an imprint of Simon & Schuster, next Tuesday, March 18th; I wrote this draft review for Booklist's February issue.  

I won't link to articles about the notorious derailment since There Be Spoilers for this particular novel, but you can google it if you so choose!

Our multicultural family history, a guest post by Alix Christie, author of “The Shining Mountains”

I'm very happy to have Alix Christie here on the blog with her essay about the family history behind her latest book, a family saga set in the Rocky Mountain West. Her debut, Gutenberg's Apprentice, was one of my favorite novels of 2014, and her second, The Shining Mountains, was just released in paperback by the High Road Books of the University of New Mexico Press. For additional information, please visit her website.

~

Our Multicultural Family History

Alix Christie

From an early age I was fascinated by the stories my Canadian grandmother told of her Scottish forbears in the Pacific Northwest, particularly one 19th century fur trader, Archibald McDonald, who married an alleged “princess” of the Chinook tribe. Decades later I would understand how offensive this fantasy depiction of Native wives of white men could be, and how common it unfortunately was. Yet as a child I was enraptured enough to draw a detailed family tree, showing that Archibald had indeed married Raven, a daughter of Chief Comcomly of the Chinook tribe. There the matter would have rested, if my younger brother, a historian and professor of literature, hadn’t turned up one day a decade ago with a boxful of books. He’d just written a scholarly paper on another distant relative, Duncan McDonald, and was gifting me his research. “For your next novel,” he said.

A quick count of the “Cast of Characters” of the book that eventually resulted adds up to more than fifty names. They include those Scots Highlanders, French missionaries, British bosses, American trappers, Norwegian, German and English immigrants, and Native Americans from five different tribes across the Rocky Mountain West. Though my research began with that one man — Duncan McDonald, son of our Scots great-great-great-uncle Angus and his Nez Perce wife Catherine—the story I discovered reached back several generations and across a vast expanse of the West, from the Rocky Mountains to the Pacific Ocean. It all came together when I flew to Montana to meet my many cousins on the Flathead Reservation, all enrolled tribal members descended from Angus and Catherine.

Angus McDonald, 1860s, at the new international boundary between the U.S. and Canada

Catherine McDonald (Kitalah—Eagle Rising Up, Nez Perce), studio portrait, 1860s Montana

Growing up in California public schools I had not the slightest idea of the deep pre-American history of our land. The story we were taught was one of pilgrims and triumph; the mechanics of “Manifest Destiny” and westward colonial expansion were not so much glossed over as ignored. Meeting for the first time Native Americans with whom I shared some drops of Scottish blood was therefore an extraordinary introduction to their history, both painful and proud. The five years I spent learning about their lives has been one of the richest experiences of my life. The Montana McDonalds welcomed me, offering advice and support; only with their generous help and a long and careful consultation with tribal authorities, was I able to breathe life into their family story as a novel.

The Shining Mountains recounts the life and times of this mixed-race family—half Scots Highlander, half Nez Perce, Mohawk and French—who were prominent in the last years of the fur trade between 1840 and 1860 in Washington, Oregon, Idaho and Montana. Angus McDonald was the last Chief Trader for the Hudson’s Bay Company in the vast chunk of territory that would become the northwestern United States. But it wasn’t his prominence that most amazed me. What struck me with even greater force was how incredibly multicultural was the mid-19th century world within which he and his family moved. We Americans have traditionally called our country a “melting pot” but on its western edge it was less melted than bubbling with many diverse peoples, all intermarrying and hunting and farming and trading together, Norwegian and Salish and Scottish and Yakama, French and Russian and yes—American. It was a Babel as well: many Native tribes communicated with one another through sign language, while the traders who bought furs from them used a pidgin they called “Chinook-wawa”.

Two of Angus and Catherine's children, Angus P. and Maggie McDonald,
in full Scottish regalia, 1870s Montana

Angus and Catherine's son Duncan McDonald, with his wife
Louise “Quil-see” Shumtah (Salish),
in Native dress with American flag, 1870s Montana

This novel is about the love between two people of radically different backgrounds, yet sharing, paradoxically, a common culture of hunting and tight-knit family clans: Highlanders, too, were considered “savages” by the English who colonized Scotland. In North America families like theirs were put under incredible stress by the waves of Anglo migration that displaced Native people and forced them onto reservations. Yet against the odds they survived, to maintain their cultures and deep connection to their homelands. The “old Scotsman,” ancestor of many tribal members on the Flathead Reservation, remains a great source of pride. I was deeply moved when his great-grandson, the late Joe McDonald, the founder of Salish Kootenai College, and a great supporter of this project, described the book I wrote about Angus’ and Catherine’s life as “brilliant and invaluable.”

The author with the late Dr. Joe McDonald, Angus & Catherine’s great-grandson,
at the family cemetery at Post Creek, Montana (2016)

When I think now of the history of this country, I think of Joe, and of his cousin Maggie, the head of McDonald Ranch, and the rest of those descendants five and six generations later, every possible blend of indigenous and immigrant. America has always been a multicultural place, a mixing and mingling of different peoples and cultures. It’s a vital thing, today, to keep in mind.

~

The Shining Mountains (High Road Books/University of New Mexico Press) appeared in paperback in early March 2025. Also in e-book, audiobook and hardback wherever books are sold.

Lauren Willig's The Girl from Greenwich Street looks behind the history of America's first recorded murder trial

On the evening of December 22, 1799, Elma Sands, a young woman of illegitimate birth, donned her best calico gown and left her cousin Caty’s boardinghouse on New York City’s Greenwich Street, planning to elope with her wealthy intended. Twelve days later, her body was found in a well, and her purported fiancé, Levi Weeks, was put on trial.

For those new to this real-life incident, a noted murder case from early America, Lauren Willig’s latest book reads as an edge-of-your-seat crime novel, with sharp, panoramic characterizations and twists seemingly too fantastic to be true. For others familiar with the history, it resounds as a well-thought-out dramatization, capped by a long, satisfying author’s note.

The evidence against Levi is circumstantial, so the prosecution, led by assistant attorney general Cadwallader Colden, has an uphill battle. Already smarting from a recent loss, Colden knows his professional reputation hinges on success.

And on the defense team are Brockholst Livingston, Aaron Burr, and Alexander Hamilton, an unlikely alliance of men with past entanglements, future political aspirations, and conflicting approaches. The atmosphere is tight with suspense as it becomes clear only Alexander seeks the truth as well as justice for Elma. Can he possibly win?

Guided by primary sources and careful analysis, Willig (who holds a law degree herself) brilliantly steers through events with Elma at the center, looking back to her position as a poor relation in her Quaker family, her relationships with cousins Hope and Caty, and Caty’s complicated role as major breadwinner in her marriage, which irritates her husband, Elias.

The story has impressive stage-dressing full of details on household life and customs. Alexander, while a bit naïve and prone to verbosity, has a quick legal mind, and watching him and Aaron each try to out-maneuver the other makes for riveting fiction.

Lauren Willig's The Girl from Greenwich Street was published this week by William Morrow/ HarperCollins. What a story! I'd known nothing about the trial before reading the book, and if the same's true for you, please avoid googling the history in advance. This is a must-read for anyone who loves courtroom dramas and early American history, as well as Hamilton fans. 

Resistant Women: Imagining Voices Inside a Nineteenth-Century Asylum, an essay by Stephanie Carpenter, author of Moral Treatment

Thanks to author Stephanie Carpenter for contributing a post about crafting characters within the setting for her debut novel.  Her essay makes for a good start to both Women's History Month as well as Small Press Month this March (and look for more small press-focused posts in the coming weeks). Moral Treatment was published by Central Michigan University Press on February 25.

~

Resistant Women: Imagining Voices Inside a Nineteenth-Century Asylum

By Stephanie Carpenter

My novel Moral Treatment was inspired by the former Northern Michigan Asylum, a psychiatric hospital that operated from 1885-1988 in my hometown of Traverse City. When I was a kid, the hospital’s huge, Victorian buildings were vacant and untended. What little I knew about the place came from relatives who’d worked there—and from my own impressions, formed while roaming the grounds and peeking through dusty windows. I think it was inevitable that I would someday write fiction about this setting.

I didn’t know what stories would suggest themselves when I began researching the hospital’s history, but I quickly became fascinated by the ideologies associated with its crumbling architecture. The moral treatment of the nineteenth century aimed to provide humane care to people experiencing mental illnesses. Its chief therapeutic tools were wholesome food, sanitary surroundings, access to medical care, and exposure to positive influences. Few drugs were in use in this era, and the punitive tools employed by previous generations of doctors were abandoned. But this compassionate approach yielded few "cures," and across the U.S., hospitals like the Northern Michigan Asylum expanded steadily. I wondered about the experiences of doctors and patients inside those walls.

Moral Treatment imagines life in a fictional hospital in 1889, five years after its founding. The novel alternates between the perspectives of the hospital’s medical superintendent—referred to throughout as “the doctor,” to emphasize that his identity is inseparable from his work—and seventeen-year-old Amy Underwood, a newly-admitted patient diagnosed with “pubescent insanity.” Amy’s reckless behaviors led her parents to commit her, and I wanted to depict her experience as both deeply distressing and, in some ways, liberating: at the hospital, she’s exempt from societal expectations for young women. But how could she grow in a space where she’s constantly monitored and diagnosed? Drawing from research, I developed the women characters around Amy as points of resistance to repressive forces both inside and outside the hospital.

One of the most outspoken of these characters is Mrs. Lovelace, a deeply-devout patient known as “the Walking Skeleton of Charlevoix,” who I based on the “fasting girls” of this period. The wife of a minister, Mrs. Lovelace is disgusted by her husband’s superficial piety. She presents herself as an exemplar of true Christianity, sustained on faith alone; her emaciation and fervent preaching challenged her husband, leading to her institutionalization. The doctors see Mrs. Lovelace as a case of religious delusion and anorexia nervosa; she sees them as charlatans, leading witless sheep. Mrs. Lovelace’s righteous defiance impresses Amy deeply.

Another vocal challenger of the hospital’s authority is Bertha Chapman of the Women’s Christian Temperance Union. Visiting Amy’s ward, Miss Chapman is troubled to learn that not all patients—Amy included—have letter-writing “privileges.” The policy is presented as protective, but Miss Chapman recognizes it as repressive, arguing that the women all deserve voices. Mocked and maligned, temperance reformers fought to raise awareness of the impacts of rampant alcohol abuse, focusing on the suffering of women and children. The WCTU also took progressive stands on a variety of other issues, and it made sense to me that Miss Chapman would advocate for institutionalized women. Amy recognizes Miss Chapman—an unmarried woman, uncowed by the doctors, working for social reforms—as an iconoclast and ally.

author Stephanie Carpenter
(credit: Adam Johnson, brockit inc.)

Amy’s closest friend, Letitia Olsen, is a young, chronic patient who embodies women’s vulnerability and persistence. She’s been abused at other hospitals; her scars, including from a hysterectomy, illustrate gendered biases about mental health. A ward of the state, she’s now attracted the attention of the hospital’s most “modern” doctor, who sees her as a good subject for an experimental surgery. But charismatic Letitia thwarts the doctors’ attempts to quell her, constantly calling their motives into question and seeding doubts among the other women. Letitia always authors her own story, but Amy worries that her friend’s story-telling sometimes veers into self-delusion; Letitia’s unprotected situation pushes Amy to plan for both of their futures.

Finally, I crafted the doctor’s wife, Diana, as a bridge between her husband’s clinical perspective and the patients’ lived experiences. Diana met her husband as his patient at a health resort; though her “nervous complaints” make her seem like a Victorian stereotype, her arc challenges ideas about women’s frailty and docility. Having lived on-site at asylums throughout her marriage, Diana makes meaningful roles for herself: socializing with the patients, planning entertainments, and documenting the hospital through photography. Though her husband still sees her as his patient, Diana is increasingly concerned about his health; at fifty-one to his sixty-five years old, she recognizes that his commitment to the hospital is unsustainable. Her perceptiveness extends to the patients. By sharing her interest in photography, Diana expands Amy’s narrow view of the world.

Moral Treatment doesn’t attempt to tell the stories of actual people who lived, loved, and suffered at the Northern Michigan Asylum or hospitals like it. Those stories aren’t mine to tell. Instead, I hope that my fictional characters, rooted in historical research, help to animate the institutions that still linger around us—and I hope my novel illustrates that power may be complex, but it is never absolute.

~

Stephanie Carpenter’s debut novel, Moral Treatment, is the inaugural winner of the Summit Series Prize from Central Michigan University Press. Her collection of stories, Missing Persons, won the 2017 Press 53 Award for Short Fiction. A native of northern Michigan, Stephanie holds degrees from Williams College, Syracuse University, and the University of Missouri. She is Assistant Professor of Creative Writing at Michigan Tech University. Learn more at stephanie-carpenter.com.

Instagram: @scarpent9
Facebook stephanie.carpenter.author

Which promotional blurbs matter the most to historical fiction readers?

The literary world has been having a long-overdue conversation about the practice of blurbing, that is, writers providing promotional endorsements for each other’s books. This was spurred by Sean Manning, publisher at Simon & Schuster’s imprint of the same name, who wrote an essay for Publishers Weekly explaining why they’d no longer expect their writers to obtain blurbs. “Trying to get blurbs is not a good use of anyone’s time,” he writes, among many other good points. “Instead, authors who are soliciting them could be writing their next book… worse, this kind of favor trading creates an incestuous and unmeritocratic literary ecosystem that often rewards connections over talent.”

 Others in the industry have shared their own takes:

From NPR Books' newsletter: Hey, would you mind blurbing my book? 

From Elisabeth Egan in the New York Times: What are book blurbs, and how much do they matter in publishing? (gift article) 

Publicist Kathleen Schmidt, from her Substack: Let's Talk About Blurbs... Again

Author Rebecca Makkai: Blurb No More - written before Sean Manning's essay came out.

Blurbs, blurbs, and more blurbs

Blurbs from peers can provide encouragement for authors, especially debuts, and contribute to a sense of belonging in the literary sphere. But since presumably the goal of all involved – publishers, authors, and agents – is to sell books, it should matter if readers find blurbs useful or not. And the consensus is that they don’t – or, at best, “we don’t know.”

As a book critic and avid reader, blurbs come across my desk and inbox all the time but usually don't, in themselves, encourage me to take a closer look. Blurbs are good at demonstrating their writers’ connections in the industry: fellow authors within the same category (like historical women’s fiction); authors who share the same publisher or literary agent; or writers and faculty from the same MFA program.

Some novels include a voluminous list of blurbs that go on for pages. Why so many? Nobody's going to read them all, and all I can think is how many total hours were spent on that exercise. It's not easy to provide a nice précis while extolling the book’s appeal in an original way. Just like reviewing, blurbing takes time and skill.

I know this personally, since I’ve been on the receiving end of blurb requests a handful of times. I was pleased to be asked and enjoyed the books but have decided to stick with reviewing. Also, several instances after I spent time reading a book and crafting a blurb, the author’s publisher decided it wasn’t valuable enough to use (the unspoken message is that I lack name recognition!). This wasn’t the author’s fault, but it was discouraging.

Blurbs' strongest asset is their ability to provide clues, in a readers’ advisory sense, about what type of book you'll be getting. This only works if readers recognize the names of the authors providing the quotes, and are familiar with what they write.

Some blurbs can be confusing if not outright detrimental, with regard to helping a book find its audience. I’ve seen works of commercial historical fiction arrive with blurbs by authors of literary short story anthologies – a big disconnect. I’ve also seen blurbs for historical novels written by professionals in unrelated fields who may have been personal friends. Best to skip soliciting those.

Here are specific instances when, as a reader and reviewer, blurbs have piqued my interest:

- Novels by new-to-me writers, especially those with small or indie presses, blurbed by well-known authors whose works I admire.

Some examples. I had recently seen the Publishers Marketplace deal for Esperanza Hope Snyder’s Orange Wine and made a mental note to watch for it, since it’s set in early 20th-century Colombia and had an intriguing plot. It appeared on NetGalley last week with a blurb from Margot Livesey, whose The Road from Belhaven I loved. I put in a request for it. For another: C. F. Dunn’s Wheel of Fortune has a cover endorsement from Elizabeth Chadwick, who calls it “the best Wars of the Roses novel I have ever read.” This doesn’t guarantee I’ll love either book, but were these blurbs effective? Yes. 

- When a major author in the genre praises any book. The late Hilary Mantel was known for her generosity towards other writers, as well as her discernment. If she praised a book, I paid attention.  Her comments were always brilliantly phrased, too.

The book cover, and a close-up.
What do you think... is this blurb persuasive?

- Novels in which the author’s moving to a new genre or subgenre and seeking to expand their audience. If the blurbers and blurbs don’t match this new direction, it sends a mixed message.

-  Recommendations from representatives of historical societies, well-known academics, or others with a personal relationship with the novel’s subject. These are uncommon and totally not necessary for fictional works, but when done appropriately, they stand out. While this isn’t a blurb per se, the endorsement that Nedra Farwell Brown, great-granddaughter of the subject of Kathleen Grissom’s Crow Mary, provided for the book via her foreword is noteworthy. How do I know this? Because so many reviewers mentioned it in their reviews. I dare say her words carried even more weight because Grissom was writing outside her culture.

The absence of these or any other blurbs isn’t meaningful to me, however, and it’s the rare endorsement that would persuade me to read a book I didn't already want to read.

I would be interested in hearing from other readers about whether blurbs/endorsements encouraged you to pick up a book.