Days of Summer Past
I intended to write something about the Booker Prize. They announced the longlist at the start of the month, and I. Had. Thoughts. But somewhere between having said thoughts and finding time to write, some family stuff went down and there was this once-in-a-lifetime Tropical Storm in Southern California, along with a small-but-noticeable earthquake, and I got distracted. Also, book-prize politics felt far less interesting. I’m sure I’ll circle around, but in the meantime, I plan to drag you down memory lane with me.
Perhaps because this summer flew by and I spent almost none of it engaged in my typical summer activities, I have nostalgia on the brain. Dreams of idyllic summers past. They came in a clump, roughly between the ages of eight and fourteen. I had good summers after that, don’t get me wrong, but none of them were as ever as pure and unencumbered as the ones when I was young and free to roam.
Does everyone hold up their childhood summers as the goal? I’m sure there were plenty of kids for whom summers were less than wonderful, but I loved those ten or so weeks of unstructured freedom. If we took a family vacation, we typically went the end of June, shortly after school let out, and were back by the start of July. We’d pack up the car and drive north, to one of several spots on the coast of Maine, or sometimes to Cape Cod. There would be a few days of swimming in motel pools, wandering rocky coastlines, exploring general stores and small-town novelties, and a lot of seafood dinners. We’d drive back home, my father would return to work, and the real summer would begin.
My mother wasn’t the type to ship me off to camp for the summer. I spent a few weeks in day camp the summer after my brother was born, I assume because she didn’t want me bored and underfoot every single day. But other than that, most summers my days revolved around the library.
Our local library—The Perrot—was a small two-story brick building located at the other end of a park from where I grew up. The park sat in two large ovals: the one across from my house featuring a small playground, swings, tennis courts, and a couple of softball fields; and the one beyond, with a pond in its center, winding paths around the water, and a few arched wooden bridges where it branched off and disappeared under the road that led to the library.
Once I was allowed to cross the three necessary streets between our house and the library, I was deemed old enough to go on my own. (It was the seventies; we did that sort of thing back then.) I learned to sign my name in cursive before they taught us in school, because that was the determining factor for getting my own library card. Armed with my card, my house key, and a dime for the payphone in case of emergencies, off I’d go.
Generally, my mom registered me for the summer reading program. Once a week, I’d sit up on the second floor with a bunch of other kids my age, and the children’s librarian, Miss Bell, would read something short on that week’s theme—topics like U.S. history, astronomy, mysteries, inventors, biography. Afterwards, we could each choose a book on the theme, all pre-sorted onto a rolling cart and reserved for our group, to check out and read over the week. We were limited to one each, to make sure everyone got the chance to pick something that interested them.
But the reading program occupied just one day out of the week; I went to the library most every day. Other things did happen. I had swimming lessons a couple of summers. Some days, my mother would suggest we go to the beach, or tell me we were visiting my grandmother. It must have rained occasionally. But otherwise, I’d wander off mid-morning with my completed books to return, and get to work choosing a new stack. Books selected, I’d amble back through the park, often stopping at an enormous tree by the pond, its limbs splitting low enough to form a sort of cradle I could climb into easily. I’d read in that tree—sometimes for a short time, sometimes so engrossed that I’d finish my first book—until I got hungry or hot or uncomfortable enough sitting on the scratchy bark to continue my walk home.
I’d read more after lunch, this time lying on my stomach on my bedroom floor in front of the air conditioner vent. I’d read again after dinner until bedtime, which was less an assigned hour and more when my brain finally shut down. If I made the mistake of reading too late (flashlight under the sheet, of course), my parents would go to bed, turning off the air, and I’d find my room getting too warm to fall asleep easily. On those nights, I’d just lie on the bed, pretending it was a raft floating on a dark sea—an illusion aided by the blue carpeting in my bedroom, not that it was visible at night. My raft journey merged into whatever adventure I’d been reading, until finally I’d drift off. It didn’t matter when. It was summertime.
As I got older, the structure of my summers changed. My brother—eight years younger—grew old enough to join the library pilgrimage. And I went less frequently, borrowing longer books that took more than a single day to finish. I started babysitting, which meant having cash to spend in the small bookstore in town, a similar walk in distance but in the opposite direction from the library. Whatever else was going on, reading remained my favorite pastime.
Looking back, it’s the pace of life that strikes me. I grew up in a time before computers or internet or any sort of streaming entertainment. We got cable TV when I was halfway through high school. My brother eventually got a gaming console, but I was already off to college, or close enough. Summer for me meant piles of library books, sandy feet and salt-water hair from the beach, and fireworks across the street on the Fourth. It was string beans and tomatoes from our garden, the Good Humor man ringing his bell, trying to catch lightning bugs on a hot night, suntans without talk of skin cancer, bug bites without worry of Lyme disease. Summer held a few simple, precious things and so much wonderful time and space flowing between them. Those summers formed me—as a reader, but also as someone who appreciates the importance of imagination and freedom to explore and wonder.
Does anyone’s summer still look like that? Could it? I consider the stories that posit time travel, asking the reader where they would go. So often the answer revolves around big life moments. Decisions. Forks in the road. Things you would go back to change. But at this moment, riding my little nostalgia raft, I think I’d go back to a summer from my childhood. Age eleven or twelve, maybe. Hard school years, but still perfect during the summer. I’d travel back to my books, back to the library and the park, to the simplicity of a pre-technology lifestyle and the safety and ignorance of the moment.
Just one summer.
How about you? What would be your perfect summer? Something from your past, or something entirely new?
A few quick announcements:
First, a reminder that this newsletter will be moving to a different platform. This is the final issue to be sent through Substack. If you are a current subscriber and received this in your inbox, you don’t need to do anything. Your subscription will migrate to the new platform and you’ll receive the next newsletter as always. For those of you reading on the Substack site, future issues will not appear here. I’ll add a link below once it’s available for signup, and there will be plenty of announcements ahead of the next mailing, both on my website and across social media.
Second, I’m closing to submissions for a couple of weeks: September 1 through September 15. As always, I have lots to read and too little time to do it, so I’m hoping to catch up and get a little breathing room on that front. When I reopen mid-month, it will be to a broader range of genres again.
I’ll be on faculty once again for the next Futurescapes Workshop, taking place November 9-12. It’s another virtual workshop, focusing primarily on fantasy, science fiction, and horror novels. They’re accepting applications now, so go check it out if you might be interested.
In addition, Futurescapes has a brand new, year-long opportunity coming up, for writers looking to work long-term developing their novel with a faculty member and a very small group. There’s a mention on the site, but I believe more details will be posted shortly. So keep an eye out.
For those of you getting ready to submit your work, I recently wrote some tips on the process: 9 Ways to Feel More Confident When You Start Querying Literary Agents.
If your synopsis is giving you trouble, you might want to check out my self-paced online course: Master the Art of the Synopsis.
A few more links to share:
Our 26 Most Anticipated Fall Books – Suggestions from Off the Shelf
The Lawn Is Resting: A Visit to Balzac’s House – On the curious draw of treading in the footsteps of a talented writer.
The Booker Prize 2023 – The recently announced longlist for this year’s Booker Prize.
Apple TV+ Reveals ‘The Buccaneers’ Premiere Date & First-Look Photos – Fans of Edith Wharton or period drama in general will be interested to check out this new adaptation coming in November.
Problems Plus Time: What Creates a Dystopia, Real or Imagined – Madeline Ashby looks at the road to dystopia via G.K. Chesterton’s The Napoleon of Notting Hill.
Greta Gerwig’s 10 Favorite Books – I haven’t seen the Barbie movie—or any movie, recently—but I still have all the love for Greta Gerwig.
Currently in my tea cup:
Too hot for tea at the moment. 🥵
Currently on my nightstand:
I’m sad to say my nightstand holds the exact same books as last time I wrote. No shade on the books, I just haven’t had much in the way of free reading time.
A GENTLEMAN IN MOSCOW by Amor Towles
EMILY WILDE’S ENCYCLOPAEDIA OF FAERIES by Heather Fawcett
That’s all for now. Wishing you all a lovely weekend, with a little extra time for those of you in the U.S. who have the Monday holiday. Thank you all for reading, and do drop a note if you’d like to share your thoughts on perfect summers or perhaps perfect summer reading. I always love to hear what you think. Until next time!🥰