Wonted is a new word to me, but I like it. It fits.

I have been reading . . . Blogs, but not commenting much because I’m so OCD [grammar check, typo check, spell check, sense check, politeness check (don’t want to be a troll)] about writing anything that it takes too much time. And books because, well, BOOKS! All summer I didn’t have glasses that allowed me to read comfortably. I missed reading.

I read mostly literary fiction, but anything might attract me. Of course, even genre fiction can turn out to be literary. I think what defines “literary” is “real” characters, character and story a reader can identify with–even if it’s not very “exciting.” After an intense story or two, a good mystery will pull me back to Earth. Or, maybe I want to find new worlds, so then it’ll be SF. Because I have several romance stories on my kindle (that I bought for my mom, who devoured romances), I’ve even read a few of them. Although the last one I tried to read 3 times and each time had to stop because of the . . . well, it comes down to lack of character depth, including the wimpy, can’t-see-the-obvious main character. I would hope she gets some spine by the end, but I don’t care enough about any of them to try a 4th time. They just aren’t real people, and I don’t identify with any of them, even on a fantasy or daydream level.

Pale Morning Light with Violet Swan by Deborah Reed is so opposite of that. It’s mainly the story of the life of Violet Swan (a famous painter) during the last six months of her life, the past being her memory flashbacks. But it’s also very much about her family–her son, daughter-in-law, and grandson and a bit about her late husband. There are also a couple of secondary characters of importance. I got to know all these people. Even minor characters felt real. The the main POV is Violet, but the rest of her family each have some chapters from their point of view.

What I love most about all these characters is the flawed reality of them. I know them in what, to me, is a surprisingly real way. The living people as if I’d actually met them, maybe as a close family friend, and those no longer living in the way we sort of know someone we never met, but had been often told about by someone we care about who did actually know and care about them. I didn’t always agree or understand them, but those disagreements were not due to deficits in the writing. They were the same as the disagreements I have with anyone I know. We never actually know anyone 100%. Probably not even ourselves.

This book is about love. It exudes love. It’s not romantic, fairytale love, though there’s a generous dollop of that. It’s about an imperfect, yet real and abiding love of family and friends. By the end of the book that love was palpable.