Jodi Picoult’s newest novel, Sing You Home, is a gripping and complex journey through a rainbow of controversial subjects. Gay marriage and parenting, infertility, alcoholism, divorce, adultery, and  the Christian right–topics offensive to some yet close to others’ hearts are flayed open for readers explore. 

Her tale revolves around Zoe, a music therapist who has endured years of infertility treatments in her quest for a child.  She is left reeling after her husband, unable to cope with a recent tragic stillbirth, walks out on their marriage.  Zoe is as surprised as everyone else in her life when she suddenly falls in love…with a another woman.  After a wedding across state lines, the same-sex couple decides to have a child using Zoe’s last frozen embryo, but her ex-husband and his newfound born-again Christian compatriots turn the couple’s desire to have a family into a sensational and very public morality play. 

In a Chicago Tribune review of Picoult’s novel Susan Salter Reynolds writes, “The fact is, literature, when pressed, is always liberal, always progressive, always democratic. The very act of trying to understand the other side (much less create sympathetic characters) is a liberal act.”

Does that mean all fiction writers are liberal?

lib·er·al <a href=”http://dictionary.reference.com/audio.html/lunaWAV/L02/L0226200″ target=”_blank”><img src=”http://sp.dictionary.com/dictstatic/g/d/speaker.gif” border=”0″ alt=”liberal pronunciation” /><//ˈlɪbərəl, ˈlɪbrəl/ Show Spell 

–adjective 

1.  favorable to progress or reform, as in political or religious affairs. 

2. favorable to or in accord with concepts of maximum individual freedom possible, especially as guaranteed by law and secured by governmental protection of civil liberties.   

3.  favoring or permitting freedom of action, especially with respect to matters of personal belief or expression: a liberal policy toward dissident artists and writers. 

4. free from prejudice or bigotry; tolerant. 

5. open-minded or tolerant, especially free of or not bound by traditional or conventional ideas, values, etc. 

6. characterized by generosity and willingness to give in large amounts.  

7. not strict or rigorous; free; not literal.

All writers, in some sense or manner, share their personal values and beliefs with us as they scribble down their stories.  Picoult’s stand on the issues in her novel were crystal clear and would be considered extremely liberal in the political and social definitions.  How much of our personal beliefs are ingratiated into our characters’ thoughts and actions?

Are we liberal because we force ourselves inside the minds of characters, whether they are serial killers or saints, in an attempt to create a well-rounded individual readers believe could exist outside the pages of the story?   Or because we so often push the established boundaries of current and familiar society, subliminally spoon-feeding ideas and dogmas to the reader while they are vulnerable in our carefully concocted realm of suspended disbelief?

What do you think?

I always say I don’t believe in signs, just as I don’t believe in streaks of bad luck, miracles, or divine intervention.   Yet despite my doubts, I discover strange little omens sneaking up on me, curious coincidences, often startling and even a bit creepy on occasion.

We headed to the beach last Sunday for a day of relaxation and reading, in no way influenced by the fortune which fell out of my Hubby’s cookie earlier in the week (see above).  The day was gorgeous with cloudless blue skies, cool breezes, and plenty of kids scampering along the shore for Kiddo to befriend.  I sat back in my lounge chair to catch some rays and read.

A few pages into my selected reading I started shifting nervously, clenching my teeth, and sweating as if it was the middle of July.

The novel felt a bit too familiar, and I could hear faint echos of my own work in progress  (a.k.a. the novel I have been driving myself slightly crazy over for the last year or so writing).   A wave of panic rushed over me.  But I had never heard of this book until a few months ago…I certainly couldn’t have taken any of the ideas from it…

The protagonist was in a situation similar to mine.  Her children were the same ages.  Her marital situation, her escape to a new life, so many of the emotions she was rolling through were so similar to my main character.

The sea breeze and sunshine could not halt the alarm bells echoing in my head.

My story wasn’t original.  It was trite and tired.  I should just give up now, erase my work with a few simple key strokes and be done with it.

I looked over to where Kiddo was building an enormous sand bunker with a  friend he had picked up on the beach.  The girl, perhaps six or seven, was a spitting image of my heroine at that age–the same coppery long hair, skinny legs, button nose.  My young Eve appeared before me, an apparition of what could be if only I kept going. 

A few minutes later she was joined by her slightly older brother, and yes, he was a dead ringer for my young hero/love interest as a boy.    The book pressed to my chest, I sat staring at the pair imaging them as my characters twenty-five years older and meeting for the first time on the beach as in my story.

A cherubic toddler ran past on a quest to reach the gently rolling waves.  “Come back Evie G. Wait for me!” her harried father laughed as he chased after her.   I felt as if someone had smacked me upside the head with an six-inch-thick dictionary.   The ghosts of writing were coming after me full force, shouting my heroine’s nickname for all to hear.  Honestly, I was getting a bit creeped out.

Maybe it wasn’t time to give up.   There are only so many themes in literature, but each tale of love, hero(ine)’s epic  journey, or fall from grace is told in it’s own way.   I sat back and focused on the differences and discovered the stories were not even nearly the same.  My story is as unique as each freckle on MY Evie’s nose.

 Perhaps there is some significance to those signs after all…