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Book Club Girl's Second Annual Holiday Open House Kicks Off with The Hanukkah Bush and Hunt by Ilie Ruby

It's that time of year again! The virtual misteltoe is hung and just as I did last year during the holiday season, I will be hosting an open house throughout the month of December, with authors stopping by Book Club Girl all month long for a glass of virtual eggnogg and a cyber cookie as they share their holiday traditions and memories with us. You can take a look at some of last year's posts here, which include Adriana Trigiani's awesome decorating traditions, Katrina Kittle's amazing post about her mother's ornament collection and Robin Antalek's recollection of the children's book that started an annual family tradition.

 We start this year's Holiday Open House with a Hanukkah post from Ilie Ruby, author of The Language of Trees.

The Hanukkah Bush and Hunt

I grew up in a rather nontraditional Jewish family, yet one with many traditions. Each year at holiday time my siblings and I experienced a unique fusion of Hanukkah rituals and Christmas festivities. Amidst the amalgamation of chaos, excitement, and dread of Santa’s reindeer and friends, I always looked forward to two customs, in particular, the “Hanukkah Bush” and “Hanukkah Hunt”. To call a spade a spade, the “bush” was a Christmas Tree, a blue spruce, always the biggest tree on the lot. It stood regally in my father’s grand living room reaching high into the Victorian ceilings, gloriously festooned with glass bulb ornaments painted in Israeli colors (blue and white), its branches made heavy with lights, bows, strings of popcorn, small Israeli flags, toy dreidels, and heaps of blue and silver tinsel, as if to coat it with Judaism in case there was any question.

Each year, after my sister and I had fashioned a hefty Jewish Star out of tinfoil, popsicle sticks, and tree branches criss-crossed in two overlapping triangles held together with colored yarn, my father would climb a ladder, and plunk down our six-pointed star at the top of the tree, ultimately holding it in place with duct tape. To add to this occasionally explosive fusion, the constellation of guests at the Christmas Eve dinner table was ever changing, but always included my aunts, uncles and cousins, orphaned family friends that—after too much eggnog—would stay for 3 or 4 days, along with my father’s newest romantic interest, and her child(ren), along with her relatives. You might have found at the table one or two of my father’s ex-wives, past girlfriends and their children, and an assemblage of distant “relatives”, some of whom had been coming for years, and were not related to us by blood and no longer by marriage, yet who had become part of the tapestry of our family events, far outlasting their initial connections.

Truth be told, the only consistency in our family was that our family was consistently in flux. We could actually never predict who would be at the holiday dinner table that year for turkey, my grandmother’s potato latkes, her dreamy mashed potatoes, cranberry dressing, pies and eggnog. Yet, we always knew it would be a lively group, and I always knew that everyone who was there really wanted to be there.
Thankfully Hanukkah often started before Christmas so we held fast to our Jewish heritage before the chaos ensued, celebrating Hanukkah with Hebrew prayers said over lit candles in a beautiful silver menorah. Each year on the first night of Hanukkah my father staged the Hanukkah Hunt. It was, in fact, a treasure hunt created by my father just for his children, with clues he had written and hid around the house, each one a rhyme, leading us from one gift to the next gift. We’d tear through the rooms of his 200-year old house, collecting our gifts, eager to find the last clue that led to a large beautifully wrapped box. Inside this box there was another wrapped box, and inside that, another box, and another. Inside the smallest box there was a special present for each of us. Jackpot.

I don’t remember any of the presents of my past. Not one. But those big trees festooned in blue and white are burned in my memory. That, and the hunt—the care my father took in writing clues, the time he spent hiding gifts after we had gone to bed, the fact that after several failed marriages and broken relationships he still found the wherewithal to beautifully wrap a box inside a box inside a box and put a bow on top. That was a feat in itself, I know now. But back then, it was just something special I could count on, made just for me and my siblings, before the holiday crowd showed up with holiday cheer, to partake in our boisterous and welcoming home full of nontraditional traditions.

Browse inside Ilie Ruby's The Language of Trees and check out her website for more information on the novel and how summers spent growing up on Canandaigua Lake helped to inspire it.

Skype Book Groups: A Celebration of Book Group Readers - Guest Post by Ilie Ruby, Author of The Language of Trees

More and more authors are discovering the pleasure of connecting directly with readers, without leaving the comfort of their home. While phoning into book groups is nothing new, connecting via Skype is a more recent, and growing, phenomenon. It does require that an author (perhaps?) get out of his or her pajama pants for the conversation, but it also allows an author to actually see the group with whom they're interacting, rather than face the phone without ever seeing all the people on the other end of the line. Ilie Ruby, author of the novel The Language of Trees shares her latest Skype book group adventure with us here.

Last night, I had my third SKYPE book group for The Language of Trees, my debut novel released in August this year by the amazing folks at Avon HarperCollins. I enjoy these SKYPE book group events as much as the in-your-living-room book groups (which are proving to be very fattening—too many treats). Last night, as I settled into my office, through the magic of technology, these women and I were offered a window into each other’s lives. This was a fabulous bunch—a diverse group of literary ladies. It took me back to a time when I was allowed to go out at night, sans kiddos, and to talk books, and kids, and life! There was so much laughter last night. What a treat.

We talked about my novel, of course—there were the good and insightful questions about Canandaigua, about hands-on healers, and characters I might have known in real life, about women who love, and about ghosts that won’t let go, and then the questions about process, ie. Group member: “When you write is it like watching a movie in your head?” Me: “No, it’s like I’m IN the movie.” That made them smile. I discussed the necessity of losing yourself in your writing in order to sink into your characters and write from that place, especially if you have multiple narrators. We talked about how to do that for a while, and I explained that it has to do with finding your zen moment—it’s different for every person, the moment when you forget your-self, which some describe as the zone. The women shared their own “in the zone” moments. Moments caught between shuttling children or driving home from work, moment snatched while exercising, baking, teaching, or playing piano, or writing. It was fascinating to hear the stories of women who do it all and more and find time to ground themselves. And then, as I’ve found with most book groups (and I love this) maybe it’s just my style as an author with 3 kiddos, they wanted to talk more personal stories—about kiddos, theirs and yours, about husbands, and college heartbreaks. Isn’t that the point of a book group? Or a book? Even if it’s just one line or one paragraph or a part of a story that makes you reflect and share with others? The conversation went on and on and truth be told, I didn’t want to cut it short even after an hour. But alas my 10-year old was waiting with homework and needed my help.

So, I’d like to celebrate the women of book groups. Readers everywhere. People who love books and sharing stories of all kinds. And I’d like to tell you about this group of fabulous women because they are the real stars of book groups: the women who highlight your words in their books, who prepare the food while dealing with their own families, who moderate, who coordinate, who make the phone calls amidst their busy lives—the ones who find the time to do all this and then coordinate with an author’s schedule—they should be applauded. So I’m going to do just that. Because as generous as they say I was with them, they were with me. So, let me celebrate you Mara’s Maryland Book Group!

I met the moderator when we were 20 years old, living in Israel and we each found ourselves in a Bedouin tent having dinner. Then, another book group member, a Southern belle who loved to read and loved to bake and was described as the “mother” of the group. She had 3 kids and found time to do everything and more. What a spark and sense of humor. And there was the mommy-to-three-turned-yoga instructor, jazzed about her newfound calling and nearly certified, and she was thrilled to pieces, as well she should be. That’s a lot of yoga. Then there was a woman who was the poetry-lover, such an astute reader with a great eye for details, who had fabulous questions—questions about story, references to poems in the book and circuitous themes. She had the comments that make an author smile and think, “I can’t believe she picked up on that.” She amazed and bedazzled me. Finally, there was the the therapist-mommy who plundered me with questions about my life. I loved making her laugh. She gave me the thumbs up at the end of the SKYPE to let me know I passed the test. And then, my old friend, the moderator, who held up her Kindle to show me the highlighted parts of my book, the lines that she wanted to remember. She put it all together, had driven through the rain to pick me up at BWI airport last month and drove me to a bookstore for my reading in Maryland. Thank you, good soul.

To all these women, I offer you thanks. You blessed me with a much-needed reprieve from writing my 2nd book, and delivered not only a fabulous discussion of The Language of Trees but about love, life, and books in general. I’m glad and honored that after last night, you consider me one of you. And to all the ladies in all the book groups all over the world, I know I speak for all authors when I say thank you—for the food, the conversation, for your time, and for your love of books and each other.

Browse inside The Language of Trees. And if you'd like to invite Ilie Ruby to speak with your book group, by phone or Skype, you can contact her via her site.

October is National Reading Group Month - Celebrate with Events Across the Country!

The Women's National Book Association's annual celebration of reading groups kicks off tomorrow with the start of National Reading Group Month! As in year's past, there is a full slate of events planned at WNBA Chapters across the country. In addition, for the second year in a row, the WNBA, as part of NRGM, has selected 10 new books as Great Group Reads. So if you don't have an event near you, why not pick one of the below books when your book club meets this month as part of this national celebration of shared reading! And look for guest posts here from authors participating in NRGM events throughout the month of October.

Great Group Reads for 2010
Blame by Michelle Huneven
The Blessings of the Animals by Katrina Kittle
Cheap Cabernet: A Friendship by Cathie Beck
Eternal on the Water by Joseph Monninger
The Girl Who Fell from the Sky by Heidi W. Durrow
Little Bee by Chris Cleave
The Lotus Eaters by Tatjana Soli
Molly Fox's Birthday by Deirdre Madden
The Particular Sadness of Lemon Cake by Aimee Bender
The Queen of Palmyra by Minrose Gwin
Room by Emma Donoghue
Safe from the Sea by Peter Geye
Up from the Blue by Susan Henderson

National Reading Group Month Events

Sat., Oct. 9; breakfast, 9–11 a.m.; book-signing, 11–11:30 a.m.
Nashville – National Reading Group Month Signature Event
Breakfast with Authors, co-sponsored by Nashville Public Library Downtown and Davis-Kidd Nashville, in conjunction with the Southern Festival of Books, NPR Host Nina Cardona moderates a panel with
Tom Franklin, Crooked Letter, Crooked Letter
Sena Jeter Naslund, Adam & Eve
Melanie Benjamin, Alice I Have Been
Helen Simonson, Major Pettigrew's Last Stand
Lee Smith, Mrs. Darcy and the Blue-Eyed Stranger

Mon., Oct. 11; 6:30–9 p.m.
Charlotte
Bibliofest, co-sponsored by Park Road Books
Minrose Gwin, The Queen of Palmyra
Rick Rothacker, Banktown: The Rise and Struggles of Charlotte's Big Banks
Kim Wright, Love in Mid Air
Jay Varner, Nothing Left to Burn

Thurs., Oct. 14; 12–2 p.m.
San Francisco
Literary Luncheon, co-sponsored by Book Passage/Corte Madera
Joyce Maynard, Labor Day and The Good Daughters

Thurs., Oct. 14; 6–9 p.m.
Boston
Hotel 140
Ilie Ruby, The Language of Trees
Judith Nies,The Girl I left Behind
Edith Pearlman, How to Fall: Stories
Suzanne Berne, Missing Lucile: The Story of My Father's Mother
Michelle Hoover, The Quickening
Joseph Monninger, Eternal on the Water

Sat., Oct. 16, 9 a.m.–12 p.m.
Los Angeles
Beverly Hilton–Wilshire with event co-sponsor Book Soup
Marjorie Hart, Summer at Tiffany
Alan Brennert, Honolulu
Tatjana Soli, The Lotus Eaters

Sat., Oct. 16; 1–4 p.m.
Detroit
Baldwin Public Library-Birmingham
Katrina Kittle, The Blessings of the Animals
Kristina Riggle, The Life You’ve Imagined

Tues., Oct. 19; 6:30–9 p.m
New York City
Greenlight Bookstore
Rosalind Reisner, Read On...Life Stories and Jewish American Literature with
Susan Henderson, Up from the Blue
Sheri Holman, The Dress Lodger
Rick Moody, The Four Fingers of Death
Emily St. John Mandel, The Singer's Gun
Jackson Taylor, The Blue Orchard

Mon., Oct. 25; 6:30–8:30 p.m
Washington, D.C.
Busboys & Poets Café
Shireen Dodson, The Mother-Daughter Book Club with
with Joyce Hinnefeld, Stranger Here Below
Dolen Perkins-Valdez, Wench

Tuesday Oct. 26; 6:30–9 p.m.
Seattle
Event co-sponsored by Park Place Books
Nancy Pearl, Book Lust, More Book Lust, Book Crush and Book Lust to Go with
Dave Boling, Guernica
Carol Cassella, Healer
Robert Dugoni, Bodily Harm
Jim Lynch, Border Songs
Boyd Morrison, The Ark

The Inspiration of Place -- Guest Post by Ilie Ruby, author of The Language of Trees

Ilie Ruby's haunting new novel, The Language of Trees is just on sale today but is already garnering rave reviews in the blogosphere, including these two already this week at She is Too Fond of Books and I'm Booking It. In her gripping debut novel, Ruby explores the relationships that define us, the events that shape us, and the places we will go to in order to save ourselves and those we love most.

Echo O'Connell knows that the summer holds its secrets. They are whispered in the rustling trees, in the lush scent of the lilacs, in the flurry of the mayflies batting against the screen door, and in the restless spirits that seem to clamor in the scant breezes on hot evenings. It is in summer that she returns home to Canandaigua, to confront these spirits, both living and not, and to share a secret with her first love, Grant Shongo—a secret that will forever change the lives of many people in the town and put to rest the mysterious disappearance of a little boy more than a decade earlier. 

Grant, a descendant of the Seneca Indians who call this place "The Chosen Spot," has also come back to face his past. After a broken marriage, he has moved into his childhood home, a lake house that has withstood happiness and tragedy. He knows the spirits of the past must be dealt with—that of the little boy who disappeared all those years ago; the boy's sister, who never overcame the loss; and the love Grant still has for Echo. But before the healing must come the forgiveness. . . .

In this guest post, Ruby shares with us the inspiration she drew from the novel's beautiful setting and how it evolved as she wrote it.

I have always been interested in the way folklore converges with childhood memory, specifically, the process by which we make meaning from the stories we were told as children and how we understand those stories as adults. Having spent my childhood summers on Canandaigua Lake, my memories of the place are some of the strongest and most vivid I have. I remember that span of time—say from age 7 to 12—as a period when everything seemed overwrought with beauty, mystery, and secrets. The world of the lake was bigger, darker, and more restless than I could believe. The trees were huge, looming, tangled, and made you want to weep when you looked at them. The locals seemed preoccupied with worry, rarely looking a summer tourist in the eye, and to a child that meant they had secrets that they didn’t want you to uncover. The cabin, at least ours, was old and worn with threadbare couches and sagging front porches. It looked as though one strong wind could turn it into kindling. There was an unmistakable fragility about the place, and yet it pulled you in with its palpable strength. Still, it was the best time in my family’s life, before divorce, strife, and distance would pull us apart. Sitting around the radio on summer nights, our faces bathed in the glow of the fire, we would snuggle into our quilts and listen to story time on the radio. These times at the lake are possibly my only memory of the members of my family being together in one place at the same time.

The fact is that I started writing stories there. Our cabin had its own ghost story, and that just made it all the more interesting to me, for I knew I wanted to become a writer early on. I asked for my first typewriter at the age of 6, set up an office in my closet, and wrote away my long afternoons, the smell of the lakewater in my hair, the bristle of sunburn on my face, and a tug of hunger in my stomach. One old woman who lived on the lake had a bevy of stories to share, and because I always asked, she confessed to me that one of our cabins had been built on an Indian Burial ground, and there was a ghost in one of the bedrooms. She had 13 cats and was the keeper of local lore. She inspired the character of Clarisse Mellon in the book.

Since you might like a ghost story, here is a secret: When I began writing The Language of Trees, I began with the setting. But from the very first page, the character of Luke—a blithe little spirit—began to take over the story. The book was originally written from his point of view, and while it was a very breathless and unique writing experience, I soon realized that I was much less interested in creating a magical realm inhabited by spirits than I was in depicting a real place that was inherently spiritual. I didn’t have to do a lot of work to uncover it, but I wrestled with Luke for a good long while. Once I shifted the narrative voice, and found a proper place for Luke, the rest of the characters re-emerged and the story began to crystallize, each character taking their rightful place as the events unfolded.

Browse inside The Language of Trees and look for Ilie Ruby on tour (including an appearance this Thursday at the Borders Columbus Circle in NY that I'm planning to attend). See what other bloggers have to say on the blog tour and be sure to go to Ruby's website as well, where you can see more photos of the Canandaigua Lake region (photos here are courtesy of her site).