Essays

Until I was eleven, we had an outhouse. The only plumbing in our home was a hand pump in the kitchen sink that we had to work vigorously until cold water from the well gushed into whatever container was held ready. The only source of hot water was a shower head in the cellar (aka “spiderland”), which drew from a jerry-rigged tank heated by a circular burner fed by an inverted two-gallon glass jug of kerosene. I called this “the bomb.”

In spite of the water issue and a small electric range, Mom made a fine Christmas dinner. She was a peach. My Dad, however, glowered throughout the meal and complained about barrooms being closed on holidays. Mom allowed a limited supply of beer in the house but none of the whiskey of which Dad drank a fifth a day (no exaggeration). Having dark if dim memories of Christmases endured only with beer, he accumulated a few pint bottles and hid them outside, within a brisk one-minute walk, in what he deemed to be proper preparation for the celebration of the birth of Christ. During the day and into the evening, he complained of constipation and made frequent visits to the outhouse, always returning to announce that his condition had not been relieved though he was sure the Lord would answer his prayers next time.

Every sentimental account of Christmases past requires a memory or two involving the outhouse. Here’s another. Our outhouse had two holes—two seats—about twenty-four inches apart. In all the years before we got an indoor bathroom, never did more than one person at a time use that outdoor facility. Who would think that a visit to an outhouse was a social occasion? My maternal grandfather, a sweet man who wrongly believed that he possessed house-building skills, had designed and managed the construction of our 600-square-foot house and outhouse, doing much of the work himself. When I asked why he provided two holes, he scratched his head and finally said, “So you’d have a choice.” On another occasion, he said, “For emergencies.” What I suspect is that Grandpa thought having an outhouse wide enough to accommodate two holes was a status symbol and that wealthy people like the Rockefellers would have six or eight holes.

Of course, every Christmas morning began with the opening of gifts, which was not done in the outhouse. I enjoyed fondling the soft, lumpy, brightly wrapped items, trying to guess accurately which one contained socks and which contained underwear. There were always a few real gifts too. Considering that I had been obsessed with books since I was six or seven and had begun writing stories when I was eight, it is odd that I was never given books. There were no books in our house other than those I brought home from the library. In our family and those of our close relatives, there was a generally held belief that there was no reason to read books unless you were being held at gunpoint by psychopathic librarians.

Now that I’ve come to the subject of books, you no doubt expect that I will harangue you mercilessly until you buy my new novel that will be released in January. Well, you are wrong and will have a happier life if you learn to be less cynical.

I am instead going to give a five-star review to a novel by Matthew Pearl—The Award, published by HarperCollins—and recommend that you buy it for yourself and as a gift for anyone who enjoys twisty, unputdownable novels. I loved this book! David Trent, the lead character of The Award and a writer himself, is not a hero in the classic mold. He is self-centered and naive and otherwise flawed. However, after he wins a prestigious award for his first novel, the astonishing events that follow involve so many colorful but detestable people that you will find yourself rooting for him. By comparison to everyone around him, he becomes a naïf in a world of knaves. The reader begins to suspect and hope that some sly power with a sense of proportion is looking after David. It would be criminal to reveal the surprises in Mr. Pearl’s novel. I will say only that it is a true, brave, delightful take on literary ambition, the publishing business, and academia. Even if you have no interest in those subjects, you’ll love The Award for the propulsive power of the story. This is the first book by another writer I’ve recommended in this newsletter. I’ll restrain myself in the future.

Now I will harangue you to preorder my novel, The Friend of the Family, which will be published on January 20, 2026. You can get it in hardcover, eBook, or audio. The story is set between 1930 and 1944, and it’s close to my heart. My editor says it is “beautifully written.” You might say she is biased, and of course she is, but she is also a woman with a deep respect for the truth. Remember, being less cynical ensures a happier life.