These Is My Words

 

These Is My Words 

By Nancy Turner

This is the diary of Sarah Agnes Prine, 1881–1901, Arizona Territory. And let me tell you, the first 30 pages contain enough trauma to send me to a therapist for years. YIKES! Rape, murder, tragic child deaths, Indian attacks, attempted abduction… I’ll be honest, I don’t think I would have thrived under these conditions, lol.

The WILD Wild West!

The novel follows Sarah from a young woman growing up on the Arizona frontier to a wife, mother, and woman who learns to navigate a world that is often brutal and unforgiving. Through her journal entries, we experience the realities of frontier life: the constant dangers, the struggle to survive, the demands of raising a family, and the challenges women faced in a time when independence and opportunity were not always easy to come by. But this is also a story about ambition, finding your place in the world, building a home, and discovering a love that makes all the hardships a little more bearable.

“My life feels like a book left out on the porch, and the wind blows the pages faster and faster, turning always toward a new chapter faster than I can stop to read it.”

And that’s exactly what this book feels like. Sarah’s journal IS the story, and I was completely captivated. I started it this weekend and finished it this weekend. I couldn’t put it down.

My thoughts on Sarah? This woman has grit. She’s courageous, strong but vulnerable, independent, and not afraid to speak her mind. She fights for her family, wants an education, and knows what she wants out of life. She doesn’t simply accept the hand she’s dealt. She questions things, makes her own decisions, and keeps moving forward, even when life knocks her down. What a woman!

One of the things I loved most was how real Sarah felt. As she educates herself, her grammar improves. As life changes her, her writing changes. As she has more children and life gets busier, her journal entries become more spaced out. You can actually see her growing and evolving through her words. She doesn’t feel like a character in a historical novel. She feels like a real woman living a very VERY hard life.

Because the story is told through Sarah’s journal entries, we experience everything from her perspective. We see the frontier through her eyes, from its dangers and hardships to the everyday moments of family life. Her spirit jumps off the page as she writes about ordinary days alongside extraordinary experiences. There is deep love, devastating loss, triumph, struggle, and more than a few moments that left my mouth hanging open.

The first 30 pages and the last 30 pages gutted me.

At the heart of this story is a love story that unfolds slowly, but I came to really admire it. As Sarah observes the relationships around her, she begins to understand what she wants for herself. Not just a husband or someone to share a life with, but a REAL love. The kind you can hear, feel, and trust. A love built on respect, devotion, and truly knowing another person. The kind that is rare. Rare for all of us, really.

And I think that’s what this book is ultimately about for me. It’s about the people Sarah holds closest to her heart, the family she builds, and how the love she gives and receives, along with the losses she endures, shape the woman she becomes. It’s about a life that is far from easy but is still filled with meaning, connection, and moments of happiness worth holding on to.

I also loved this quote:

“It seems there is always a road with bends and forks to choose, and taking one path means you can never take another one. There’s no starting over nor undoing the steps I’ve taken.”

What a truth. This one made me stop and think about my own life and all the opportunities I’ve had that I didn’t choose. We all wonder sometimes what life might have looked like if we’d taken a different road. What if we’d made a different decision, said yes instead of no, or gone in a completely different direction?

But just like Sarah says, there’s no undoing the steps we’ve taken. We can wonder about the roads not taken, the lives we might have lived, and the people we might have become. But we never really know how those other stories would have ended.

Maybe that’s what makes this book so powerful. Sarah’s life is nothing like the one she could have imagined for herself, yet she keeps going. She loves deeply, suffers unimaginable loss, finds strength she probably never knew she had, and continues to grow into the woman she becomes. Life doesn’t spare her pain, and it certainly doesn’t give her an easy road. But it gives her love, purpose, and moments that make the hardships worth enduring.

And isn’t that life, in so many ways? We make choices, circumstances make choices for us, and sometimes we simply do the best we can with the road in front of us. We spend time wondering about the paths we didn’t take, when the life we are living is still unfolding.

This book reminded me that a life isn’t measured by how smoothly it goes or how closely it follows the plan we once had. It’s measured, at least in part, by how deeply we love, what we endure, and who we become along the way.

Sarah’s story was tough to read, but it also reminded me how much strength and beauty can exist alongside sorrow.

 

Mad Mabel

 

Mad Mabel 

By Sally Hepworth

I really wanted to love this book because the premise is interesting, but honestly, listening to it has felt like a bit of a chore.

Between the different timelines, all the characters, and the pieces of the mystery that slowly come together, I found myself getting lost and having to work to keep track of what was happening. I would drift off for a few minutes and come back wondering if I'd missed something important. Maybe it's me, but I honestly don't know how people listen to audiobooks while doing other things and manage to take it all in!

The story centers on 81-year-old Elsie Fitzpatrick, a rather prickly, fiercely independent woman living a quiet life in a Melbourne neighborhood. But Elsie has a secret: she was once Mabel Waller, a teenage girl who became infamous as “Mad Mabel” after being convicted of murder. When an elderly neighbor, Ishaan, is found dead, her carefully maintained anonymity begins to unravel, and suddenly the police, the media, and the neighborhood are all interested in her past.

As the story unfolds, we move between Elsie’s present-day life and her troubled childhood, learning about the experiences and relationships that helped shape the girl who would become Mad Mabel. There are complicated family dynamics, childhood trauma, questions about guilt and justice, and friendships that become important lifelines. In the present, Elsie also finds herself drawn into the lives of her younger neighbors, including a curious little girl named Persephone and her mother, Roxanne. As more of Elsie’s history comes to light, you start questioning how much of the story people think they know is actually true.

Beneath the mystery is a deeper story about loneliness, trauma, the need to feel loved, and how our past shapes who we become. The more I learned about Mabel, the more I wanted to understand her, even when I wasn't always sure I was following every twist and turn.

But there was one thought in particular that really stuck with me: how funny it is that the things we dream of having or desperately want sometimes don't bring us the joy we imagined they would.

Isn't that the truth?

When we're younger, we tend to believe happiness is waiting for us somewhere in the future.

I'll be happy when I have the lake house. I'll be happy when I get that promotion. I'll be happy when I buy my dream car. I'll be happy when I find the right person. I'll be happy when I finally have the life I've been working toward.

And then you get there. You accomplish the things you worked so hard for. You feel proud, grateful, even excited. But the enormous, lasting sense of fulfillment you imagined doesn't always arrive. Or it arrives for a little while, and then life settles back into its ordinary rhythm.

I think maturity is realizing that something can be wonderful and still not make you happy in the way you expected it to.

That doesn't mean you made the wrong decision. It means you've discovered that the thing you wanted and the feeling you hoped it would give you aren't necessarily the same thing.

Sometimes we spend so much energy getting the life we thought we wanted that we don't stop to ask whether the life we've built actually feels good to live in.

Maybe the next chapter isn't about acquiring another thing or achieving another goal. Maybe it's about figuring out what makes an ordinary Tuesday feel meaningful. What makes us curious? Who makes us laugh? What gives us something to look forward to when we wake up in the morning?

Maybe it's a new adventure, a creative pursuit, a friendship, or something we haven't even discovered yet. We don't have to abandon the lives we've built to want something more from them.

There's a difference between being happy with what you've achieved and being fulfilled by how you're living. I think that distinction can take a lifetime to understand.

As for the book itself, I struggled with the pacing and shifting timelines. I suspect this might be a book that's easier to follow on the page than in audio, at least for me.

Even though the listening experience hasn't been especially enjoyable, the story has given me something to think about, and I suppose that's worth something.

Three stars for the book, but perhaps a little more credit for the thoughts it left me with.

 

The Invention of Wings

 

The Invention of Wings

By Sue Monk Kidd

I had The Invention of Wings sitting in my Amazon “Save for Later” for a while. I was looking for a book that would actually make me feel something...make me think, and this definitely fit the bill…and then I noticed it was on sale, so I grabbed it.

Do you have stacks of unread books waiting for you? I prefer my bookshelves to be filled with books I’ve actually read. That way, if a friend wanders over, looks at the covers and asks about one, I can hopefully remember enough to tell them why I kept it, and maybe, if it’s a book they’d love, I’m ready to let them permanently check it out of my library.

When The Invention of Wings arrived…I dove right in.

I spent the better part of Sunday turning pages. At one point, I looked at the clock and, gasp…it was 11:30 PM. I couldn’t believe how late it had gotten.

All day at work on Monday, I was anxious to get home so I could pick it up again.

But man…this book was hard to read.

It is based on a great deal of historical truth, something Kidd addresses in the Author’s Note at the end. Knowing that made some of the story even harder to absorb.

The story is told through the voices of two women whose lives could not have been more different.

Sarah Grimké was born into a wealthy Charleston family in the early 1800s. She was educated, intelligent, deeply questioning of the world around her, and increasingly unwilling to accept the limitations placed on her simply because she was a woman.

Handful, whose given name is Hetty, is the young, enslaved woman assigned to Sarah as a personal maid when Sarah is just eleven years old. Handful grows up enslaved in the Grimké household, separated from the freedom and ownership of her own life that Sarah struggles to find in an entirely different way.

And that contrast is what made this book so powerful for me.

What does it even mean to live a life when the rules were written to tell you that your voice doesn’t matter?

Sarah was born into a world where being a woman fundamentally restricted what she could do with her intellect, her convictions, her education, her work, and ultimately, her voice.

And Handful was confronting an even more brutal system. She was denied not simply a woman’s independence, but her fundamental personhood under slavery.

My reaction?

What is this life?

It feels like a gut punch to put those two experiences beside each other.

What’s fascinating about women’s history is that there wasn’t one moment when women suddenly “got rights.”

It was thousands upon thousands of women pushing against tiny and enormous barriers simultaneously.

Some wrote.

Some marched.

Some organized.

Some taught.

Some ran businesses.

Some went to court.

Some raised money.

Some refused to be quiet.

Some simply insisted that their daughters should have opportunities they didn’t have.

And some probably went home at night thinking:

Am I actually accomplishing anything?

Because Sarah and Handful don’t simply represent two women struggling for freedom.

They reveal how power stacks upon power.

A white woman in the early 1800s could be restricted because she was a woman.

A Black enslaved woman could be restricted because she was a woman and because she was enslaved and Black.

Those weren’t two separate inconveniences. They fundamentally changed what freedom could even mean.

That’s why Handful’s story felt almost unbearable to me.

You’re watching someone try to claim ownership of herself in a society that legally and socially insists she belongs to somebody else.

And yet she keeps reaching for herself.

It made me think about what we do with whatever position we’ve earned.

Maybe we use it to make things slightly easier for the people coming behind us.

We advocate for the person who doesn’t have the authority yet.

We mentor the younger woman who thinks she’s supposed to stay quiet.

We say something when something isn’t right.

That’s having a voice.

Sarah had a voice. She had passion. She had courage.

I loved this passage describing the life she ultimately created for herself:

“How odd it had turned out, how different than I imagined. The daughter of Judge John Grimké, a Southern patriot, a slaveholder, an aristocrat—living in this house in the North, unmarried, a Quaker, and abolitionist.”

Women have earned a place in this world because of women like Sarah.

And then there is Handful.

I loved when Mauma says to Handful as she lies dying:

“Don’t you remember me for that. Don’t you remember I’m a slave and work hard. When you think of me, you say, she never belong to those people. She never belong to nobody but herself.”

She closed her eyes.

“You remember that.”

I will.

And maybe that is what this book ultimately left with me.

The importance of remembering the women who came before us…not only for what they endured, but for the ways they refused to let the world define who they were.

And then asking ourselves what we will do with the voice they helped make possible.

May God Grant You Courage,

Mel

The Calamity Club

 

The Calamity Club 

By Kathryn Stockett

The Calamity Club is set in Oxford, Mississippi, in 1933, Depression-era America at its most desperate, most divided, and most unforgiving…especially if you happened to be a woman.

Let me tell you something first: this book is a brick. 656 pages. So, settle in, grab a glass of wine, and dive in if you dare.

I traveled quite a bit while reading this one and literally had to carry it outside of my backpack because it wouldn’t fit with all my work stuff. I felt dedicated.  Three different people stopped me in the airport to talk about it. Two people really liked it. One woman said she got bored with the “second story.” And honestly? I can understand that.

But don’t dismiss this book because of its length. It is definitely a commitment, but once I settled in, I found myself surprisingly invested in the story.

I feel like I am constantly being reminded of the place women have held in this world, and how much, depending on the circumstances, it sometimes feels like we haven’t progressed nearly as far as we should have. We have progressed. Obviously. But sometimes it feels situational…depending on the decade, the circumstances, the money in your bank account, the color of your skin, and, unfortunately, whether the people around you have decided you deserve a seat at the table.

Stockett wrote The Help, which, if I remember correctly, felt much more centered on race and the realities of Black women working in White households. The Calamity Club feels more focused on poverty, class, gender, and the lengths women will go to when the systems around them leave them very few options.

And then there is the actual story, which, I have to admit, occasionally required me to suspend my disbelief.

Two women start a brothel in the home of a well-respected woman in a very small, very gossipy Southern town in the 1930s.

I’m sorry…but that would have been shut down immediately.

Based on what I know about the 1930s, there is no way an entire town would just casually allow this to happen. And yet, in this story, people either overlook it, participate in it, or somehow manage to convince themselves they don't know about it.

The women are constantly running out of money, but apparently there is one business model that remains recession-proof:

Sex sells. Literally.

And while some of the plot required me to just go with it, I really appreciated the women at the center of this story. They are resourceful, stubborn, complicated, and, above all, determined. There is something I will always appreciate about an “okay, this is a terrible situation…so what are we going to do about it?” kind of woman.

The story is told through two alternating narrators whose lives couldn't begin farther apart.

Birdie Calhoun is a practical, plain-spoken young woman who travels to Oxford with one goal: convince her well-married socialite sister, Frances, to help save the family farm from foreclosure. It seems simple enough…until Birdie arrives and discovers that Frances's picture-perfect life is built on a foundation of secrets that could shatter everything.

Then there is Meg LeFleur, eleven years old, sharp as a tack, and one of the so-called “unadoptable” girls at the Lafayette County Orphan Asylum. Meg has learned not to count on anyone. Her mother disappeared on Christmas Eve and never came back, and the world has given her very little reason to believe anyone is coming to save her.

But then Birdie crosses her path.

And slowly, their lives begin to intertwine.

As Birdie digs deeper into her sister's troubles and Meg navigates one impossible situation after another, their stories begin to braid together in unexpected ways. Add Charlie, a woman pushed to the absolute edge of what she can endure, and a bold, unconventional plan begins to take shape, drawing in a remarkable network of women, both Black and White, who are simply trying to survive a system designed to work against them.

What follows is part social commentary, part found-family story, part Southern adventure, and, at times, completely ridiculous in the best possible way.

Stockett pulls back the curtain on the hypocrisy of “respectable” society while showing the quiet, defiant courage of women living on its margins.

But my favorite part of the book wasn't the brothel, the secrets, or even the Calamity Club itself.

It was Meg and Tom.

Tom becomes Meg's adoptive father, and one of their rituals is walking to the lake every day so he can teach her how to swim.

One day, Meg asks him if he can hear the dogs at night.

He tells her that the dogs were once released to track runaway slaves.

The story stays with her. Later, when she considers running away because she is afraid she will be sent back to the orphanage, she worries that the dogs will find her and bring her back.

As she packs her things, believing she is headed back to the orphanage, she thinks:

“I guess that is about the best you can ask for in life. To find the person who will keep the dogs from getting you.”

That line...

Because maybe that really is one of the greatest gifts in life.

To love and be loved.

To find the person who will stand between you and the dogs.

We all deserve that kind of love. And, maybe even more importantly, we all have the opportunity to be that person for someone else…to make someone feel safe, seen, wanted, and loved.

Tom also holds tightly to his copy of F. Scott Fitzgerald’s This Side of Paradise. The book becomes a quiet symbol of his life, his ambitions, and ultimately, his memory.

When Meg is preparing to leave, she sneaks into his office intending to take the book with her. But when she opens it and sees his name and the date he received it, she changes her mind.

Instead, she adds her own name.

Margot Louise LeFleur was here, October 7, 1933.

And somehow, that felt like the magic of The Calamity Club.

It wasn't just a story about survival.

It was about leaving a mark.

About finding your people. About being remembered. About building a family in places where you didn't expect to find one.

It built a community…messy, complicated, imperfect, and deeply human.

And maybe that's what stayed with me most after all 656 pages.

Sometimes the greatest thing we can do for another person is simply make sure they know they were here.

My Husband's Wife

 

My Husband's Wife

By Alice Feeney

Book club pick, and I was determined to finish this before everyone gathered because I missed last month. My month has been insanely busy, and I still haven’t had a day off since August 3rd…yes, I’m keeping track. Regardless, I finished most of this book on my flights to and from Charlotte to Lansing, wrapped it up last night, and what can I say?

I have a headache.

One house. One husband. Two women. Someone is lying.

Sounds interesting, right?

The book starts off fast-paced and genuinely thrilling, and I was immediately into it. Eden Fox comes home to find another woman living in her house who claims to be her husband’s wife. From there, the story alternates between Eden and Birdy, a reclusive woman drawn to the same house through a sinister clinic that predicts the date of your death.

And then things get…complicated.

Actually, really complicated.

I spent most of this book confused. Seriously, it felt completely out of control at times. There are twists on top of twists, identity switches, secrets, timelines, and enough deception to make you question pretty much every character, and your own ability to follow along.

Will the real Eden please stand up?

The premise of the clinic predicting your death date was actually the part I found myself thinking about the most. Would you want to know the exact date you were going to die? I honestly don’t know. My instinct is to say no. Why wouldn’t I just live the life I want to live and keep going as normal without knowing? But then I think about the question behind it: If you knew, would you change how you live?

It reminded me of The Measure, which was a book club pick for us that received very mixed reviews but led to a great conversation. I found that premise fascinating too, and I think it’s one of those questions that sticks with you long after you finish the book.

As for My Husband’s Wife…I’m less sure the actual story stuck with me in the same way.

There were too many loopholes and moments that didn’t quite make sense to me. Some of the twists felt more convoluted than shocking, and while I absolutely did not see the ending coming when it came to the whodunit, it was also completely over the top.

I actually think this would make a better movie. The fast pace, unreliable characters, twists, secrets, and “wait…WHAT?” moments would probably work really well on screen.

This book was an absolute roller coaster…confusing, convoluted, twisted, and occasionally exhausting. I will give Alice Feeney credit for one thing: she kept me guessing.

Trying to explain this book would be like trying to explain a family tree after everyone has married, divorced, changed their name, and assumed someone else’s identity.

And based on my track record, I think I’ll rule out ever becoming a detective.

 

Whistler

 

Whistler 

By Ann Patchett

The last book I read by Ann Patchett was Tom Lake. I felt like I might have been the only person who didn't love it. I eventually decided that maybe I should have listened to the audiobook instead…after all, it's narrated by Meryl Streep. I still haven't gone back to give it another chance, but maybe one day.

Whistler was my book club's August selection, and I disappointed myself by not finishing it in time.

Life got in the way.

I've moved...again.

I've moved more times than I care to count, but this one nearly did me in. The condo I bought came furnished…apparently, there was no negotiating that. What I happily focused on instead were the sweeping floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking the water. What I conveniently overlooked? It was on the third floor...with no elevator...and I was moving in 95-degree heat.

Several friends and family members gently asked, "Third floor? No elevator? Are you sure?"

I didn't listen.

Now that the dust has settled, though, I've loudly proclaimed that when I eventually sell this place, it's going furnished!

This past Saturday, I finally picked up Whistler and finished it that evening. I couldn't decide if I loved the novel or if I was simply basking in the reading nook Vee created by those beautiful windows overlooking the water. Maybe it was both.

The novel opens with a wonderfully intriguing premise. Imagine walking through the Metropolitan Museum of Art on an ordinary afternoon when an elderly stranger begins following you. What would you do?  I think most people would speed up…maybe head toward security.  Daphne freezes.

The man following her is Eddie Triplett, her stepfather…a man she hasn't seen or spoken to in forty-four years.

Patchett moves effortlessly between present-day New York and a freezing January night in 1980, when nine-year-old Daphne and Eddie survived a car accident that should have killed them both.

This isn't really a story about the accident itself. It's about everything that comes after.

It's about how families rewrite history. How children quietly carry blame that was never theirs. How memory shifts over time. And how love doesn't always fit neatly into the boxes other people expect.

One of my favorite scenes from that snowy night is when Eddie distracts Daphne by telling her the story of a horse named Whistler. The horse stays beside an injured woman stranded in a remote place, refusing to leave her until help arrives. On the surface, it's simply a story to calm a frightened little girl. But it's also a beautiful metaphor for loyalty, hope, and surviving impossible circumstances.

What really happened that night?

Why did the marriage end?

Is it ever too late to understand the people we once loved?

As Daphne searches for answers, we uncover them alongside her, piece by piece.

There was one part of the novel that absolutely floored me.

When everyone finally sits around the table together decades later, no one…not one person…has ever asked Daphne what happened after she left the wreck to find help.

Forty-plus years.

No one asked.

At first, I thought, How is that even possible?

But then I thought about real life.

How often are conversations completely one-sided? How many people talk endlessly about themselves without ever asking a genuine question? How many never remember the things you've shared or follow up on something important in your life?

Suddenly, it didn't seem so unbelievable after all.

In many ways, that realization may have been the most heartbreaking part of the novel.

Whistler is a quietly powerful story about memory, family, forgiveness, and the stories we tell ourselves to survive. It's about the family we're born into, the family we long for, and the family we ultimately choose. It reminds us that every family has hidden histories, misunderstood decisions, and acts of love that often go unnoticed.

And yes...

About that cover.

Who is Whistler? Why the horse?

Trust the journey.

Like so much in this novel, the answer arrives quietly, and it's all the more beautiful because of it.

And one last thing...

I hope Daphne eventually writes that novel for Eddie. After everything they endured together…and everything left unsaid…I think it's a story worth telling.

I'd certainly read it.

 

Wuthering Heights - the movie

 

Wuthering Heights...the movie.

My coworker Alexis told me I had to watch the new movie, Wuthering Heights.  She loved it.  It is a daring reimagining of Emily Brontë’s classic novel. I’m fairly certain I read the book many years ago, although the details have long since vanished. From what I do recall, this adaptation goes beyond simply retelling the story, offering a fresh, darker interpretation of the familiar tale.

Right out of the gate, I felt like the film was trying a little too hard to grab me and shake me awake. It opens with heavy breathing and strong sexual undertones before abruptly cutting to a man being hanged. There’s no gentle introduction, it throws you directly into the deep end. Honestly, I think I would have preferred the violence to stand on its own rather than layering it with additional shock and mystery.

That feeling lingered throughout much of the film. I went in expecting more of a gothic romance or period drama, but it leans far darker and more graphic than I anticipated. There were also a few scenes, particularly those involving animal slaughter and its accompanying sounds and imagery, that I personally could have done without. I understand the intent was to emphasize the harsh realities of life on the moors, but for me it crossed the line from effective atmosphere into excess.

That said, there was a lot I genuinely loved. The atmosphere was immersive, the mood was haunting, and the overall aesthetic was beautifully realized. The costumes were stunning, richly detailed and perfectly suited to the world the filmmakers created. And I have to mention Isabella, played by Alison Oliver, who completely stood out to me. Her performance felt natural, grounded, and emotionally authentic, drawing my attention every time she appeared on screen.

The film centers on the dysfunctional love story between Catherine Earnshaw (Margot Robbie) and her brooding foster brother, Heathcliff (Jacob Elordi). They are introduced as children, and surprisingly, I found myself more invested in the younger versions of the characters than their adult counterparts. Their performances carried a rawness and emotional honesty that really resonated.

As the story unfolds, Catherine marries Edgar (Shazad Latif), prompting Heathcliff to leave in a rage. Years later, he returns with a fortune of his own and a burning desire to either reclaim Catherine or get revenge. He stokes Catherine’s jealousy by turning his attention to Edgar’s impressionable young ward, Isabella, who delivers what I found to be the film’s strongest performance.

Heathcliff and Catherine are deeply flawed, selfish people who leave destruction in their wake. Their relationship creates a toxic cycle of obsession, love, cruelty, and revenge that ultimately consumes not only themselves but nearly everyone around them.

Despite the heavier moments that didn’t sit well with me, I still enjoyed the film’s atmosphere, visuals, and emotional intensity. I would recommend watching it, with the caveat that some scenes are particularly graphic and may not be for everyone.

What stayed with me most is this: Wuthering Heights is a beautiful film that sometimes hurts to look at, but perhaps that’s exactly what it intended to be.