Editor's Note: Maria Padian’s new young adult novel, Out of Nowhere, introduces readers to Tom Bouchard, soccer star, most popular, and third in his class. Everything is idyllic – until 9/11/2011. Today, Maria stops by Everyday eBook to talk about her inspiration, why she went with a quieter post-9/11 story, and more.

Although Out of Nowhere deals with broad themes of racism, immigration, and religious tolerance in a post 9-11 world, the story began for me in a more personal place. Namely, with the novel’s narrator, Tom Bouchard.

I’m a great believer that good writing is character-driven.  When you know your characters well, you can stick them in pretty much any situation, then sit back and watch a plot take shape. I have this fun writing exercise I love to do with students, where we take different characters from various books and drop them into the opening chapter of Kate DiCamillo’s novel, Because of Winn Dixie. By the end of our workshop, the kids all realize that the story doesn’t happen because a stray dog wanders into a grocery store; that beautiful novel unfolds because a lonely but loving and generous girl is standing there when the dog enters.

Out of Nowhere happened because Tom Bouchard was there when Somali refugee kids began arriving at his school.

Although the novel is inspired by actual events that dominated the headlines in Maine for months, the “smaller” story interested me. What was it like, after living in an African refugee camp for years, getting off a plane and seeing snow for the first time? Riding an escalator for the first time? Enrolling in a school where no one speaks your language?

Likewise, what’s it like when you’re a white, Catholic kid from a white Catholic town, and practically overnight your school is filled with black Muslim kids who pray on all fours in the stairwells and wash their feet in the bathroom sinks?

Sometimes, as an author, you just get lucky. I was lucky enough to be introduced to two amazing young men -- one a Somali teen, another a white teen from Lewiston, Maine -- who were friends and played varsity soccer together. Together, they regaled me with stories about their team, their friendship, their town. They helped me to understand what was possible between them, and what was still developing. They helped me to get beyond the adult world of angry people shouting at town council meetings and into the locker room and school bus and the pre-game pasta party. They reminded me that regardless of color and nationality and religion, kids are just kids, and they all want the same things: To make friends. To fit in. To have someone to sit with at lunch, whether lunch is a hot dog or a goat-filled sambusa.

I could have written about the “big” issues by picking up a newspaper, but I was able to write Out of Nowhere because I got to know this imaginary boy, Tom Bouchard. He’s far from perfect, but he’s got a good heart. He makes mistakes but he’s brave and kind. I spent a lot of time getting to know this character, and the novel followed.

What is the “truth” in fiction? If the narrator of a story never tells you his name, does it make him a liar? He is, after all, not real. Kristopher Jansma’s inventive first novel, The Unchangeable Spots of Leopards, sets out to deliberately bend and break the understood rules of fiction. Leopards features perhaps the most unreliable narrator ever, it contains meta-fictions, including at one point a novel within a short story within a novel, and it is – blasphemy! – about writers and writing. It’s also a fun read; the book is riddled with playful homages and allusions to writers like Fitzgerald and Hemingway – every single chapter begins with an epigraph – and you get caught up in the game of figuring out what’s “real” with a narrator who admits that he is a liar. Amid this trickery, Leopards is a complex novel about storytelling itself. The guiding principle of the book is paraphrased from Dickinson: “Tell the Truth but tell it slant.”

The story centers on a trio of friends made, lost, and found. Our unnamed narrator goes by several nicknames and false identities, and has wanted his whole life to be a writer. His friend Julian is, probably, a more brilliant artist but is often stifled by his social and physical neuroses. Leopards both laments and celebrates the act of being a writer. At one point, our narrator comments that, "The real thing – the true thing – takes more time and effort than most people would ever imagine. Whole productive lifetimes for a few hundred pages that most assuredly won't outlive us." Julian’s childhood friend Evelyn, a stunningly beautiful actress, plays a Daisy Buchanan-like role in the narrator’s life. From the college where the trio meet, Leopards spans the globe from New York City to Iceland, to Africa and Dubai. The narrator steals a friend’s identity and fakes his way into a passport and professorship, Julian becomes Jeffrey, Evelyn’s Indian prince becomes a Luxembourgish prince; details shift, and the “real” story blurs.

The Unchangeable Spots of Leopards exposes and manipulates the very idea of fiction and reality; it’s never clear what is true even within the world of the novel. It reads as a sort-of mystery because of this, but you never expect it to be solved. Jansma has given us a book in large part about what fiction is, and what it is to be a storyteller. As our narrator points out in the “author’s note,” “These stories are all true, but only somewhere else.” What do we want from fiction, after all? A good story, a reflection of our own thoughts and anxieties. At its best, a glimpse of the Truth, capital-T, something universal and theretofore unarticulated. To get that Truth, sometimes you need some slant.

Sometimes in Young Adult fiction I find an honesty of emotion and life that doesn’t exist in adult literature. It reflects the way life is, with all of the raw emotions of growing up and finding who you are, and the mistakes made in trying to forge that path. Though some YA reading may simply serve as a guilty pleasure for adults, there is a vast oeuvre of Teen literature that isn’t just fluff or an escape. Don’t get me wrong – I love my apocalyptic, dystopian, vampire series as much as anyone, but sometimes I like to delve into the teen mind and be reminded of where I came from, what I survived to get here (and doesn’t it feel like you are trapped in your own survival game when you’re that age?!). Elizabeth Laban’s The Tragedy Paper is a book that falls into this deeper sort.

The Tragedy Paper doesn’t need to be labeled as “teen” or “YA” – it’s just a great book. Told in an interesting dual narrative, we read the story of Duncan Meade, a senior at the prestigious upstate-New York Irving School, and Tim Macbeth, a recent graduate who transferred to Irving for his senior year, to the school whose motto reads, “Enter here to be and find a friend.” Through Tim’s narrative, we learn that he is an albino, and thus does not expect to make friends when he first arrives at Irving School. However, after his flight from Chicago is canceled, he meets Vanessa, also a senior at Irving – a beautiful, popular senior.

Interspliced with Tim’s story is Duncan’s story, told in the third person. Duncan inherits Tim’s room – the dreaded, small room at the end of the hall – on his first day of senior year, and Irving tradition has it that the prior resident leaves the new resident a gift of some sort – a bottle of booze or pizza, perhaps. Tim’s gift is a stack of compact discs – through which Tim tells his story. As we listen to Tim’s story, we know that he and Duncan are connected in a way much greater than an inherited dorm room – but we don’t know yet what that connection is. Tim’s voice has a raw honesty, and he doesn’t try to explain away his actions or mistakes. As Duncan becomes more and more engrossed in Tim’s story, the reader becomes just as intrigued.

Despite having very different lives and situations, Tim and Duncan have quite a bit in common. They are both lovestruck. They both feel like outsiders. Neither feels well-understood, and they both wrestle with the insecurities that this causes. In essence, they are both trying to find themselves and how they fit into the world.

Jennifer Weiner called The Tragedy Paper “a beguiling and beautifully written tale of first love and heartbreak,” and many have compared it to Thirteen Reasons Why and Looking for Alaska. Whatever the comparisons and quotes, the bottom line is that Elizabeth Laban has written a beautiful book that will speak to everyone.

It's summer, 1948, in a small sleepy town in rural Virginia, where there's no crime and "people expected to live calmly and die and go to heaven in due time." One school, no stoplights, parents on porches sipping iced tea, kids making dandelion chains and nibbling penny candy. These folks in Robert Goolrick's Heading Out to Wonderful, a smooth story with a slow burn, accept their lot -- that is until chaos enters Brownsburg in the form of Charlie Beale, a handsome, charismatic stranger bearing two suitcases: one containing a set of butcher knives, the other, seemingly unlimited cash.

Back from World War II, Charlie is an enigmatic loner. Initially, he wants only two simple things out of life in Brownsburg: a dog and to amass land. He has an earnestness to him and convinces the trusting town butcher to give him a job, in which he performs splendidly, drawing in the women customers. Charlie's first connection, however, is with the butcher's five-year-old son, Sam. Charlie, with his talent for baseball and patience in answering endless questions, begins to spend more and more time alone with Sam, who adores him, in spite of Charlie's somewhat eccentric behavior. The other bond Charlie develops is with Sylvan, the young, beautiful, star-struck wife of rich, fat, villainous Boaty Glass, who purchased her "like cattle" from her poor farm family.

Redemption, childhood, all things good and pure are what Sylan represents to Charlie. And to her, "He is Hollywood." The passion between them comes from two places -- his is all consuming, while she is cooler, her attraction to him more of a mystery. We sense their scandalous affair careening toward something irreversible and Goolrick winds the tension both between them and in us, as we await the repercussions: In this God-fearing place, there clearly will be punishment for wrongdoing. The destructive trio of Charlie, Sylvan, and Sam (who becomes a sort of son figure for Charlie) impacts the town forever, and the ending of this dark love story leaves us breathless.

Heading Out to Wonderful transports us to a simpler time, where falling in love with the wrong person at the wrong moment was near impossible. More than just a romance, Goolrick effectively renders the period and place, the segregation juxtaposed with picturesque small-town life, the vibrant characters to be found behind picket fences, and their very human motivations. And while the storyline veers from innocence to sin, Goolrick writes with a serenity that allows us to witness the inevitable outcome.

Markus Zusak is a bit of a legend, having written the profound award-winning novel, The Book Thief. One of his earlier young adult books, I Am the Messenger, displays his immense talent for authentically portraying the experiences of his characters. He did so with the girl struggling to survive Nazi Germany in The Book Thief, and he does so here, in the story of an unmotivated young man whose life is upended when he embarks on a mysterious, dangerous mission. Family, friendship, love, and the moral responsibility that connects all three surface in this story, adding up to become a novel that is heavy and light, serious and funny, and especially thought provoking.

Set in contemporary Australia, Ed Kennedy is a nineteen-year-old cabdriver who grew up on the proverbial wrong side of the tracks. He's an underachiever who spends his time playing cards with his friends, one of whom -- the beautiful Audrey -- he's secretly in love with. His kind but unsuccessful father has recently died, his older brother can do no wrong, and he barely tolerates his verbally abusive mother. Ed lives alone with his smelly dog, The Doorman, his most loyal companion.

Everything is going along as usual until the day Ed unwittingly stops a bank robbery and apprehends the robber. From that moment on, he's a local hero. Soon, he begins anonymously receiving mysterious playing cards in his mailbox, Aces to be specific, on which clues are written. Compelled to decipher the clues and go where he is directed, he winds up intervening in people's lives, sometimes with encouragement, sometimes with a gun. It's menacing, ominous business, because when Ed tries to stop, he is threatened and beaten. And so he becomes "the messenger," fixing lives, helping or hurting as needed. Ultimately, Ed has been given an odd opportunity to exercise a strange power, through which he discovers his desire to be more than a nobody, to live up to his potential. Zusak paints his rough-edged protagonist with a tenderness and thoughtfulness that is impossible to resist.

I Am the Messenger is a natural fit for young adults, as it speaks to the feeling of being an outsider and choosing one's path in life, but it appeals to mature readers with its complex characters, moral conflict, and suspenseful plot. Who is behind the playing cards? Who is forcing Ed to comply? This is no innocent tale. There has been some debate about the novel's ending, which takes an existentialist turn, but I think it fits well with the world Zusak has created for Ed Kennedy. You'll have to read it and decide for yourself, but I do promise you'll feel rewarded.

American literature has a history with war. Over time, it has led to beautiful, tragic, honest works: The Civil War led to The Red Badge of Courage; WWI to A Farewell to Arms; WWII to The Naked and the Dead; the Vietnam War to The Things They Carried. And now, perhaps, Kevin Powers has added to this literary tradition with his debut novel, The Yellow Birds.

In 2004, twenty-one-year-old Private John Bartle serves in the U.S. Army. He and his platoon are stationed in an Iraqi town called Al Tafar, where they endure firefights, mortar fire, and quasi-General Patton speeches from sergeants with camera crews. Still, for Bartle and his friend Murph, an eighteen-year-old soldier, priority lays in a single thought: "We didn't want to be the thousandth [soldier] killed." This goal becomes a reality. Neither is the thousandth killed. But as Bartle mentions repeatedly -- revealing little by little throughout the novel -- Murph is, in fact, killed. Complicating things, before leaving basic training at Fort Dix, at the family goodbye party, Bartle promises Murph's mother that he will protect her son, that he will bring him home alive.

The story is told in retrospect by Bartle himself, now almost thirty years old, living in "the gift of quiet quarantine in a cabin in the hills below the Blue Ridge." From this point-of-view, Bartle moves past a simple, action-packed war novel, and instead, now that he "can see [him]self for what [he] was," examines his psychological damage and inability to recapture his humanity. Any attempt at returning to his past self, who he was before the war, appears as hopeless and futile as the repetitive battles he speaks of -- “seems like we're fighting over this town every year." And his attempt for a return to normalcy appears near impossible when the CID (Criminal Investigation Division) begins to uncover a secret from Bartle's time in the war.

The Yellow Birds is a product of classic American war literature. One hears echoes of Crane, Hemingway, O'Brien; one finds muses on their themes, such as cowardice, manliness, guilt; one even sees in Bartle elements of Henry Fleming, Nick Adams, and Paul Berlin. But while sharing in this literary tradition, The Yellow Birds digs out its own place as one of the best, and strongest, books to come out of the Iraq War.

As I was approaching my twenties, I couldn't wait to move out. It seemed like a bigger life was calling me. And so I pursued my dreams and aspirations for a new life, new friends, fresh adventures, and opportunities. Yet to this day, I still maintain a significant affection for my old neighborhood: the streets, the houses, the stores, and my childhood friends, some of whom have chosen to remain and build their lives there. Occasionally, in my more sentimental moments, I even wonder if these friends had the better idea. In Telegraph Avenue, the latest by Pulitzer Prize-winning novelist Michael Chabon, the author explores some of these attachments and a whole lot more.

Brokeland Records is a vintage record shop, in a racially mixed neighborhood of Berkley/Oakland, California. Owned and run by two partners, Nat and Archy, who have a deep affection for the jazz and R&B music of yesteryear, their business is a modest enterprise, mostly catering to the locals they've known for years. The shop is a homey place to gather and sit a spell, to discuss and sometimes heatedly argue over topical issues, as well as favorite musicians and their works. In addition, everyone knows everyone else's business, which is, of course, vastly more interesting.

As the story of this inner circle expands and characters are more deeply revealed, we experience the richness of their personalities' strengths and flaws, marital problems, dangerous histories in some cases; in short, the fabric and soul of life's daily hardships, triumphs, dreams, and disappointments. Their latest dilemma entails the proposition of a new mall being built on Telegraph Avenue. The move is badly needed to lift the run-down despair of the local neighborhood, but the plans include a fancy, larger music store to be named the Dogpile -- which promises to bankrupt Brokeland Records as well as some other local favorite spots. City politicians are caving in to the idea (for the good of the community?) and pressure on these local establishments is growing by the day. An element of intrigue is added through some characters' knowledge of others' crime-riddled pasts. Characters include a rich, former NFL quarterback; an aging, martial-arts movie star of '70s blaxploitation films and his sexy flame; a hoodlum turned funeral director; and the wives of Nat and Archy, longtime friends who work together as midwives. They prove to be a delicious and provocative mix. If the story seems simple, I can assure you the sum is indeed greater than its individual parts.

Michael Charbon is exemplary in his storytelling, giving authentic and distinctive voice to each colorful character. His extensive and incomparable use of metaphor and analogies, distinct and imaginative, communicate believable subplots and back stories that create masterful mixes of dialogue, locale, and action, with a peppering of sharp and well-tuned wit. Surprises abound around every corner. It is clearly evident why some are referring to Telegraph Avenue as the Great American Novel. This level of writing is difficult to overstate, which may explain the success of this and his previous novels, The Yiddish Policemen's Union, The Amazing Adventures of Kavalier and Clay, and others.

In Telegraph Avenue, Chabon reminds us how life in the old neighborhood was often a triumph of human spirit in desperate circumstances, but fortunately, infused with moments of grace, and thankfully, riotous laughter.

Jack Kerouac's On the Road is not gentle. It won't wait for you to call out of work, cancel appointments, or pay bills; it won’t wait for you to tell your spouse, "I just can't make it home tonight, dear." No, instead you're tossed into a shabby Ford and driven off at 110 mph, and as you sit up, straighten your collar, and look at the madman behind the wheel, all you can ask is, "Whither thou goes, America, in thou shiny car in the night?"

In 1947, Sal Paradise meets Dean Moriarty. He's instantly impressed by Dean, enchanted by his passion for life. So when Dean leaves for Denver, Sal promises himself that he, too, will soon make the pilgrimage west; and so begins his life on the road. For the next three years, Sal crosses and re-crosses America with little money, searching for "IT" (i.e. a meaning to life and God). He covers the whole country via the road -- big cities and small towns, countrysides and mountain ranges -- stopping only to visit friends and pick up hitchhikers. But of course, Sal isn't alone in this; in fact, he's not even usually the leader. That title belongs to the Denver madman himself, Dean Moriarty.

At times, Dean is enigmatic like Gatsby; crazed like Ahab; wild, youthful, and without family (though, also likewise, with a long-lost drunken father) like Huck Finn. But he's not just some literary hodgepodge, either (which would've been fascinating enough), but rather has something entirely unique to himself: madness. You see, Dean is mad to live and talk, mad to "dig" jazz and girls, mad to experience everything. So much so you often wonder, "Is this madness or psychosis?" (And is there a difference?) This is why Dean leads the way, and why Sal stays loyal to him, even when warned of Dean's destructiveness, even when, time and again, Sal witnesses this destruction and its victims, namely Dean's abandoned wives and families.

Like his characters, Jack Kerouac's prose is both rapid and expansive. His sentences twist and turn like the roads that snake across the country and take seemingly improvised, and very jazz-like, detours along the way: small adventures of their own.

Upon publication, Kerouac was hailed the voice of the Beat Generation. Although he wrote other books (e.g., The Dharma Bums and Big Sur), On the Road proved Kerouac's most enduring and powerful, influencing the likes of Hunter S. Thompson and Bob Dylan. A movie adaption of On the Road starring Kristen Stewart, Garrett Hedlund, and Sam Riley is due out in 2012.

Reading Jerry Spinelli's wondrous young adult novel, Stargirl, published in 2000, it seemed like something plucked out of a time capsule from the 1970s -- there were no vampires, no caged battles to the death. This made sense when I realized that Spinelli's first young adult work was released in 1982 and he had been writing them before and ever since. Spinelli sets this quiet coming-of-age story in an ordinary town in a desert community in Arizona at a typical high school. Or, typical until an extraordinary new girl shows up.

Spinelli's tale is narrated by Leo Borlock, a sensitive sixteen-year-old who fits in among his classmates. Everything is going along as usual when Stargirl, fresh from homeschooling, arrives. She is unlike anyone else. She twirls and plays the ukulele in the cafeteria, serenading students with "Happy Birthday." She puts a vase of flowers on her desk every day. She wears the wrong clothes and no makeup. She gives out homemade cards that are unsigned. She cares for people -- but she doesn't seem to care what people think of her.

At first, the students -- Leo especially -- are fascinated, absorbing her brightness and reflecting it themselves. Leo and Stargirl gravitate toward each other and enter their own magical world of first love. But then Stargirl does something just a little too unusual -- an act of good will, really, but directed toward the wrong group -- and the school turns against her. Leo is caught in the middle and finds himself wanting his girlfriend to be "normal," because now he's also being treated as an outcast: "I knew exactly what I had done. I had linked myself to an unpopular person. That was my crime."

"I’m not connected!" Stargirl responds when Leo asks her why she doesn't behave the way other people do. And what is Spinelli really saying here? At times we wonder: Is she mentally ill, an alien, weird, or just … kind and sincere? And as for Leo, continuing their relationship would mean being shunned by his so-called friends. He must answer a tough question: Whose affections are more important: Stargirl's or everyone else's?

Stargirl is as relevant today as it would have been in 1978 because Spinelli captures the timeless experience of the peer pressure to fit in, and the resulting teen angst and bullying if one doesn't comply. This is a modern classic about popularity, the threat of nonconformity, and the choices we make during those teen years that seem so crucial. In 2007, Spinelli published Love, Stargirl and I'm excited to read more about this enchanting young woman. I would like to think I had the moral character to have been her friend in high school (but I can't say for sure).

Freak accidents are the stuff of nightmares. Elizabeth Berg's novel, Range of Motion, takes us intimately inside such an accident and drops us in the middle of the destruction it causes a young family. Why on earth would we subject ourselves to such heartbreak as readers? Because Berg understands the human spirit; she takes a tragic premise and exquisitely infuses it with emotion and possibility -- and that makes us feel for her characters. It is good to be moved. In this remarkable novel, there is heartbreak but hope, and valuable lessons to be learned.

The book begins with an explanation: "They say that one of the reasons for tragedy is that you learn important lessons from it." Lainey's husband, Jay, lies in a coma after being hit on the head by a falling chunk of ice on his way to work, leaving her and their two young daughters alone with their disbelief and sorrow. The doctors have given up hope that he will ever wake up, but Lainey sustains herself with unwavering love and commitment to Jay's still form; by sheer force of will she believes she can make him well. She ceaselessly talks to him and brings sentimental bits of home to try to rouse his senses, sure that he can hear her, feel her love. And with a satisfying plot device, Berg shows us Jay's point of view.

But Lainey is fighting against the odds. Her girls are suffering and she is just so tired. Nostalgic, she spends her time reminiscing about the special singularity of her marriage, the tender rituals she shared with Jay. But she is starting to break just a little bit. So she leans on her friend and neighbor, Alice, who takes care of Lainey's children and her spirit, calmly trying to make her whole again. Lainey's urge for the past and its comforts manifests in another way when she suddenly begins seeing an old-fashioned woman in her home, who talks to her about the simplicity of the way things were -- and still are when it comes to love.

Whether devotion, faith, and endless love work miracles or not (no spoilers here), Lainey learns to accept life's mysteries, from its freak accidents to the mind's odd creations in times of crisis: "Sometimes lessons take the crooked path." Chance guides both the events that are unbearable and the ones for which we feel unbearable gratitude. At the end of Range of Motion, Berg writes an author's note in which she expresses regret at not giving her book a different title that would have reflected the more spiritual aspect of the story. In my view, regardless of its title, this novel is everything it is meant to be.

We all hear World War II stories. We're saturated with them. We hear them in school, from elders, on television. It's hard to bring us somewhere new; it's hard to make us feel something new. Seldom anymore do you hear a World War II story that stops you. And never do you hear a story with, say, a jazz band escaping Nazi Germany and Louis Armstrong and a young kid's disappearance -- packed in one story. That's until, of course, you read Esi Edugyan's novel, Half-Blood Blues.

It's Berlin, 1939. Hitler reigns, and the Nazi Party cracks down on all things "degenerate." This, unfortunately for the Hot-Time Swingers, a German/American jazz band, includes their music. After a scuffle with Nazi soldiers, they hide in a closed-down nightclub, surviving on little food and "czech" (cheap alcohol). As things get worse, as they lose their band mates one by one and war seems inevitable, the Hot-Time Swingers face a fact: They need to get out.

The story follows those of them who escape. There's Sid, the bassist from Baltimore, our narrator-protagonist; Chip, the drummer, also from Baltimore, and Sid's friend from childhood; and finally, the trumpeter and youngest member, "the kid," the musical genius -- Hieronymus Falk. Hiero is a black German (a "stain" on Germany's heritage, say the Nazis). He has mythical talent. As Sid says, when Hiero played the trumpet, "you heard a lifetime."

So the three of them flee; they go to Paris and stay with Delilah, a friend and representative of none other than a jazz legend -- Louis Armstrong. What's more, Armstrong's a huge fan of the Hot-Time Swingers and wants to make a record with them. It all seems so easy; their luck seems too good. But as Sid finds out, "What is luck but something to run out?" The Nazis invade Paris on June 14. With no resistance from the French, the city is captured and overrun quickly. And again, Sid, Chip, and Hiero seek safety in hiding. But one night at a cafe, while Sid watches from a safe distance, Hiero is arrested and taken away by the Nazis -- never to be seen again.

Flash forward to 1992. The Wall has just come down; Sid, who has long given up jazz, still grapples with the past; Chip tours the world, still drumming. Their lives are very much separate. But when they're both invited to Berlin for the Hieronymous Falk Festival, they go together (after much urging on Chip's part). And here, in the city where it all began, Sid must face the guilt from his past, from Hiero's past.

Edugyan's prose, her knack for voice and music, charms and removes you. It takes you far away. It takes you to a time just before the world exploded, a time that would change everything, a time when it wasn't always safe to be yourself, your blood, your skin color, a time when -- for Sid, Chip, and Hiero -- music was both an escape and a death sentence.

The first time my heart broke as a young reader was at the conclusion of Charlotte's Web. I never saw the passing of that beautiful arachnid coming; it hit me like a slap in the face. I was turned off to tragedy for years, leaving the family room when I sensed impending on-film sadness on family movie night, turning off the Atari when I wasn't happy with the inevitable results of Space Invaders, keeping my feet bare well into autumn. I didn't think I could take any more. But then, as I approached the worldly and savvy age of ten, I picked up Katherine Paterson's Bridge to Terabithia. My mother screened my reading choices as a child, lest I accidentally and prematurely cross the bridge from Judy Blume's Freckle Juice to Are You There God? It's Me, Margaret, and when I brought Terabithia to her in the bookstore, she eyed it warily, remembering the aftershocks of Charlotte's death. But here I was, determined and so much wiser. And then there I was a short time later, heartbroken again.

Paterson's Newbery Award-winning book tells the story of Jess Aarons. Jess has been training on his family's farm in rural Virginia all summer long for one reason: to be the fastest runner in the fifth grade. The school year begins and the first race finally rolls around. Jess is confident that he's going to win. But then, in a shocking turn of events, Leslie Burke (a girl!) finishes first. Leslie is the new girl in town. She and her parents, free-spirited writers, moved to a house near Jess's family's home. In spite of their rocky beginnings, Leslie and Jess soon embark on an incredible friendship. Two loners with big imaginations escape together day after day to the magical kingdom of Terabithia, gotten to only by rope swing, a land in which they rule as king and queen, with a dog named P.T. as protector and jester.

And then fate steps in. On a rare day that finds Leslie heading to Terabithia alone, tragedy strikes, and Jess's world is forever changed. Readers are pulled into Jess's struggle as he grapples with loss. As a young reader, one is introduced to grief -- and yet learns to reconcile grief with gratitude, as Jess finds warmth in his heart for the short time Leslie was part of his life.

There are certain books that we read over the years that stay with us for any of a multitude of reasons. Katherine Paterson's Bridge to Terabithia is one of those books. The reasons? Its lessons: tragedy is manageable, grief is natural, true friendship is special, and imagination is key. The second time my heart was broken was with my first reading (of many) of Bridge to Terabithia. If you've not read it, read it now. If you have read it, revisit it. Read it and revisit it and then share one of the most beautiful heartbreaks you'll ever experience.

Tim O'Brien's Going After Cacciato seems to be a bit of everything -- war reportage, Western, adventure, psychological thriller, picaresque, fantasy, and magical realism -- all rolled into one book. So, how can this be? What can support all these genres? The answer: a plea for a reprieve, an impossible wish, in the form of one soldier's mystical dream of escape.

Like many young soldiers in Vietnam, Paul Berlin is afraid. During his first six months in the country, he witnesses tragedy upon tragedy: Billy Boy Watkins is literally scared to death; Pederson is accidentally killed in the paddies; Buff is shot in the face searching a tunnel and Bernie Lynn is shot retrieving him; Lieutenant Sidney Martin, in another tunnel, is blown up by his own men. Still, what most haunts Paul Berlin is not necessarily death, but rather his questionable courage, his "knowing he will not fight well." So he copes however he can. He counts things, catalogs details, remembers camping with his father and dancing with Louise Wiertsma. But his best asset in coping is none other than his own imagination and its muse -- Cacciato.

Cacciato is a nondescript, somewhat oblivious soldier. When he deserts the squad to walk 8,600 miles to Paris, his squad chases him over mountains and jungle, before abandoning the mission, and turning back to the war. But later, having reached a post on the shore of the China Sea, Paul Berlin asks himself a simple question: What if they hadn't turned back? What would have happened? And so we're led on a fantastic journey, an altered, imagined world, where the squad refuses to turn back without Cacciato, where they continue the chase -- through Laos, Burma, and Afghanistan; through Iran, where they're arrested and almost executed; through Turkey, Greece, Yugoslavia, Germany. And the farther they chase Cacciato, the clearer it becomes: They, too, are abandoning the war. They become civilians; they stop marching and start walking; Paul Berlin even finds love. When the squad finally reaches Paris, the mission appears all but dead. They try to balance soldierly duties with newfound freedom, only to discover that to gain, and maintain, true freedom, they must soldier again -- they must capture Cacciato.

Like Paul Berlin's mind, Going After Cacciato is mixed up (though appropriately so). It jumps in time and place and story; weaves and binds together reality and imagination; leaves you with a collage of the war and its characters. Its structure is underscored by the rough, yet lyrical, prose of Tim O'Brien.

Published in 1978, Going After Cacciato won the National Book Award, cementing Tim O'Brien's place as the literary voice of the Vietnam War. This was validated in 1990 with the publication of his best-known book, The Things They Carried, and later by In the Lake of the Woods.

Editor's Note: James Dashner is the award-winning author of the young adult sci-fi trilogy The Maze Runner, comprised of The Maze Runner, The Scorch Trials, and The Death Cure. Now, Dashner has written The Kill Order, an exciting new prequel to the trilogy. Here, he talks about the inspiration for his characters (both old and new) and the process of creating the back story of how the world in his books got so wrecked in the first place.

I'll never forget the night that most of the ideas that would become The Maze Runner trilogy first came to me. I'd gone to bed, and as I often do, my mind went nuts, brainstorming. I pictured a bleak future where a bunch of teenagers were put into an experiment. A maze came to mind. Then things really kicked into high gear and I had to run downstairs to record my thoughts.

A lot of the meat of the trilogy came to me that night. And I knew that the magic of the story would be in the mystery of it all, revealing what's behind the scenes piece by piece, discovering them along with the main character, Thomas. Another key element was his memory loss, and the here-and-there nature of some of those memories coming back to him.

It struck me, even on that first night, that a prequel would be really cool after the trilogy was complete. A prequel doesn't always work, but I thought for this trilogy is just might. Of course, that was really looking far ahead, so I shelved the idea and started working hard on the first book.

Jump ahead many years. The Maze Runner and its sequels had been written and released and seemed to be well-received and selling. All of which made me a very happy man and a full-time author. And, naturally, thoughts of doing that prequel came back strongly. I'd mentioned it to my publisher here and there, and they were strongly on board.

Here's the interesting part. I'd always assumed the prequel would tell the story of Thomas and Teresa and how they ended up with WICKED, and the things they did leading up to entering the Maze. But when I had the first discussions with my editor, Krista Marino, she strongly disagreed. She felt that so much of that had been revealed throughout the three books, and that by the end we knew that story very well. I couldn't believe how right she was! If I'd gone that route, I think my fans would have been excited to read it at first, but then felt a little disappointed and anticlimactic.

So we decided to go back even further and tell the story of how the world got so messed up in the first place, making the events of the trilogy necessary. Although it was a challenge, I had a lot of fun creating all-new characters and witnessing the sun flares and the unleashing of the Flare virus through their eyes. I hope my readers enjoy reading it as much as I did writing it.

Editor's Note: It's hard to introduce a book like Paper Covers Rock or a writer like Jenny Hubbard. As someone who works with a lot of books, and reads many books, and talks about many books, my heart leaps when I'm presented with a title that really takes me back and reminds me of how I fell in love with books in the first place, with writing, with words, with stories. Paper Covers Rock addresses serious issues of loyalty and truth when a stunt goes wrong at a boys' boarding school. It reminds me of novels like A Separate Peace and maybe even The Catcher in the Rye. This is a beautiful book, an important book, for young adults, and just about everybody else. Here, Jenny Hubbard chats about the inspiration for this novel, the codes of prep school, and the books that have touched her life.

Everyday eBook: What book made the strongest impression on you as a child?

Jenny Hubbard: The Little House series, by Laura Ingalls Wilder. I wanted to be Laura Ingalls and live by the banks of Plum Creek. I read those books eight times through -- as soon as I'd finish, I'd start over again. The illustrations by Garth Williams remain as vivid to me today as any memory from my childhood does.

EE: What inspired you to write prep school as a setting?

JH: I taught for ten years at an all-boys boarding school, and I wouldn't trade that experience for a hatbox full of hundreds. As I used to tell my students there, we each have a story to tell about this place. Boarding schools are their own microcosms, with their own codes and rules and inside jokes and senses of humor. Fascinating. Endlessly fascinating, at least to me.

EE: What was your favorite chapter (or part) to write and why?

JH: I loved writing Alex's poems. When I taught at the boys' school, I had my students compose a poem each week. The discoveries they made in the process, the heartfelt and authentic truths they were able to articulate on the page knocked the breath out of me. Alex's poems were a way for me to honor the commitment to honest language that these boys chose to make.

EE: Which character speaks the loudest to you? Do any of them clamor to be heard over the others?

JH: I think Miss Dovecott is the character who should be heard, but, unfortunately for Alex, he chooses to listen to Glenn instead. Some readers have criticized the novel for being set in 1982, but, for me at least, the undercurrent of male chauvinism and white-man privilege wouldn't have buzzed nearly as loudly through the pages of that same story set today. In the early '80s, some elite colleges and universities had barely gone co-ed, and so for an intelligent young woman like Miss Dovecott to find herself suddenly adrift on a sea of prejudice and tradition — well, she is going to have to shout to be heard, isn't she? And she isn't a shouter. So the one voice that speaks the truth gets drowned.

EE: Are you working on a second book?

JH: Yes. It's told from the point of view of three teenage girls who are witness to a high-school shooting. It's a novel about aftermath -- survival of the aftermath -- rather than the sensationalism of the event itself.

EE: What was your favorite genre to read as a teenager?

JH: Real-life fiction, a la Judy Blume. For me and many of my friends, Judy Blume was a lifesaver.

This post originally ran on Random Acts of Reading.

Nothing spectacular happens in Jo Ann Beard's debut novel, In Zanesville. There is no murder, no car crash, no divorce, no vampire, and no lightning strike. Rather, we get an unnamed ninth-grade narrator, on the border between being a kid and being a teenager, dealing with all the mundane aspects of a dysfunctional family amid small-town American life in the 1970s. And -- song screeches to a halt -- this is where this funny, awkward book reminds us to give thanks, every day, that we don't have to go back and relive our teenage years.

The main character is a completely regular girl, who babysits (mostly uneventfully, except when the house catches on fire), plays flute in the marching band (until she decides that she looks like a dork and drops out -- in the middle of a parade), whose dad drinks (probably uneventfully, except why do those shotgun shells keep reappearing in the story?), just like anyone else in a no-name, cornfield town, eighty miles from anything. This is hardly a slam against rural life. Rather, it is a geography of anywhere; the exact same dynamic occurs in a typical suburb or a big city. There is a defined social order in this anyplace; the narrator and her best friend Felicia ("Flea") aren't cool, and they know it.

The plot's pivotal point, if it can be called that, occurs after a funny interaction between our heroine and Patti Michaels, a new kid in town, in the girls' bathroom. Patti, a cheerleader, invites our heroine and Flea to a birthday party. Wait. Remember the rules from being a teenager? "Crap! The problem with Patti Michaels is that she not only doesn't know she isn't cheerleader material, but she doesn't know who should and shouldn't be invited to one of their parties. This is a disaster."

Beard, who previously wrote the deeply moving story collection The Boys of My Youth, has a pitch-perfect ear for dialogue, and she has perfectly captured the anxiety, sadness, and humor that lurks just beneath the surface of all of our lives. The crushes, the keg party, the art project, the silent treatment: Like a modern tarot deck, these are the events that shape us, and this novel helps us appreciate how we made it through.

Editor's Note: Victor LaValle is the author of the critically acclaimed novels Big Machine and The Ecstatic, a finalist for the PEN/Faulkner Award. Here he discusses his inspiration for Lucretia and the Kroons, a fantastical novella about a young girl's journey into a dark netherworld to find her missing best friend.

When my kid sister was eleven, her best friend Dee suffered and died from childhood leukemia. At the end of her life my sister was Dee's only friend. Dee was a sweet girl who lived across the street. By the end she had very little hair and was weak, quite pale. Most of the other kids in the neighborhood treated her badly. They made fun of how she looked, or the fact that she couldn't run around like everyone else. But my sister and Dee just bonded. Dee would come to our house and play with my sister for hours. Sometimes they might sit outside, but only on the sidewalk directly in front of our place. I was ten years older, but I couldn't help but notice their bond. They loved each other as deeply as two friends ever could. I never forgot their closeness.

Recently thoughts of their friendship have returned to me. I'm a new father of a one-year-old and the idea of childhood friendships, of that rare and true bonding that sometimes happens when we're young, has been on my mind. I wanted to write a story that honored the way such friendships can feel epic, almost mythical, when we're children. And I couldn't think of a better way to capture that feeling than to write a story about two young girls, Lucretia and her best friend Sunny. Sunny is very sick and Lucretia will do anything to save her. Trying to do that takes these two girls to a place beyond anything they could imagine. But they'll risk it for one another. This story is partly an homage to Lewis Carroll's Alice's Adventures in Wonderland, and a kind of prequel to my upcoming novel, The Devil in Silver, but really it's a tribute to the commitment and grace of two best friends.

In Rachel Joyce's The Unlikely Pilgrimage of Harold Fry, Harold's life has grown quite ordinary and uneventful since retirement. At the beginning of the novel, we catch Harold at the breakfast table, freshly shaved, in a clean shirt and tie, with nowhere to go and nothing planned for the day. His loving but somewhat absent and nagging wife, Maureen, is puttering around their quiet little house in Kingsbridge, England, keeping busy as always.

Harold is just staring at a piece of toast when Maureen drops a letter from Berwick on Tweed in his lap. It's from an old friend, a woman named Queenie. She's dying of cancer and just wanted Harold to know. Moved by the letter and not having thought of her for a number of years, he quickly decides to respond. Scribbling a letter to Queenie, donning his boat shoes, and with a quick "Cheerio!" to Maureen, he's out the door to the corner mailbox.

It's this moment that sparks Harold's life into motion again. Once on the corner, Harold realizes he can't go back and makes the decision to walk a few blocks further to the next mailbox. From the next to the next, he finds himself moving forward until he has decided to walk the entire way to Queenie's hospice to deliver the letter in person, believing that she will stay alive as long as he keeps walking.

Google Maps lists the walk from Kingsbridge to Berwick as over 900 miles. It says it will take almost five days, but I'm guessing it would be more like five weeks. In those five weeks, Harold continues to meet characters who are taken by his story and moved to good deeds of their own, and who help him to realize what he has been missing and what's truly important in life. Meanwhile, Maureen, slowly realizing that Harold is gone and dealing with her own personal demons, slowly realizes that she has not been a good wife and sets out to make up for the time she has lost, before it's too late.

The Unlikely Pilgrimage of Harold Fry is an utterly endearing and enchanting debut novel that will appeal to anyone who was charmed by Major Pettigrew's Last Stand or overwhelmed by the emotion of Olive Kitteridge.

In the veritable tidal wave of paranormal young adult romance/fiction these days, it can be hard for longtime fantasy fans to sift through and find a series with a genuinely interesting world, mythology, and set of characters. Cassandra Clare's The Mortal Instrument Series, comprised of City of Bones, City of Ashes, and City of Glass, is the real deal, delivering a richly imagined world, sympathetic characters, and an addictive romance to boot.

Sure, there are vampires and werewolves in this series, but they aren't the main focus. The stories center around Clary Fray, who, in Book One, City of Bones, discovers she belongs to a race called Shadowhunters -- humans from angels, who are created to fight demons on Earth. Clary is immediately thrown into the world from which her mother has fought her whole life to keep Clary, where she encounters Shadowhunters, demons, angels, vampires, werewolves, faeries, and more. This may sound like mythological overload, which is a common problem among young adult fantasy series these days. Clare, however, does a good job of integrating them into the overall plot, so that none of the creatures seem extraneous, and instead contribute to the overall detail of Clary's world and story.

Speaking of Clary's world, as a New Yorker I thrilled at how much care the author took in weaving New York City, and specifically Brooklyn, into the series. Some of my favorite books are those in which the setting is not just where the characters live, but is its own character, helping to shape the plot. Little details, like a werewolf den at the old police headquarters in Chinatown, or Clary's friend Simon's insistence on eating borscht at Manhattan Ukrainian restaurant, Veselka, added complexity to the characters, and made them feel real.

Clary herself is an outspoken gamer-girl who is not content to simply play the damsel in distress, a refreshing change from many teen paranormal romances. Of course, she does end up in a few sticky situations that require help from Jace, the Shadowhunter with the face of an angel and a bad attitude. The romance side of the series is predictable enough -- girl-next-door, bad-boy hero, and boy-next-door who is in love with the girl-next-door. Of course, Clary and Jace's romance is portrayed as epic, a love to shake up the world and resound through the ages. This is not a new story, but it's a story that teenage girls will never tire of hearing. The trick is to write it in a believable, enjoyable manner, which Clare does.

You will root for Clary and Jace, even while feeling sympathy for Simon. You will become engrossed in the plot and world that Clare creates -- I raced through these three books in three days. (The first three books were initially a complete trilogy. Clare has since extended the series with books four and five of another trilogy.) And, if you live in New York City, you may never look at your neighborhood quite the same way again.

Trouble opens at a party (as it often does). Josie, a Manhattan psychotherapist in her forties, catches a glimpse of herself in the mirror as she flirts with someone and realizes to her surprise that, well, she's still got it. "If that reflection had belonged to a stranger," author Kate Christensen writes, "I would have been intimidated by her. I had no idea."

In this instant, Josie knows her marriage is over. She must leave. This realization has been building up inside of her for years, but something about this moment propels her to take action and leave her comfortable existence with her husband (a professor) and adopted teenage daughter.

Before she tells her husband, she confides in her old friend, Indrani, and is surprised not to find the support she is looking for. She does, however, find it in Raquel, the third angle of a friendship that dates back to college. Raquel is now a famous musician going through her own personal crisis and public scandal, and has holed up in Mexico City to wait out the storm. She persuades Josie to join her there for an open-ended trip of healing and just a little debauchery. The trip (at first, anyway) seems to be just what Josie needs as she closes one chapter but has not yet begun the next.

Trouble could be unfairly categorized as chick-lit, but, like other novels of Christensen's, there is so much more to it (see In the Drink). She provides a thoughtful meditation on the complexities of female friendship and the nature of romantic relationships, and how to hold on to what feels true. Like life, nothing is left tied up in a neat little bow. But by the end, you're left with a closeness to these characters that makes them feel as though they are friends of your own, and well worth the time and the trip.

By the time the first chapter in Carol Anshaw's Carry The One is done, Carmen and Matt's wedding cake has been cut, and a small group of somewhat wasted stragglers have set out for the three o'clock AM drive back to Chicago -- when ten-year-old Casey Redman is thrown across the hood of the old Dodge, her face frozen in shock outside the windshield.

Bad things happen in life. Good things happen too, of course, but the way we respond to the bad things particularly make us who we are. This is a central theme of Anshaw's fourth novel, which describes the direct and indirect ways that people react to a stupid and preventable accident. Casey, a ghostly child in a pink and green plaid shirt, is the "one" who is carried in everyone's memory in this thoughtful story about guilt, redemption, and the nature of love.

The passengers in the car include Nick, Carmen's spacey astrophysicist brother; Alice, Carmen's artist sister, slinking off to spend the night with fellow bridesmaid Maude, her new lover; Tom, a pompous folksinger who is having an affair with Carmen's good friend; and Olivia, the driver, a mail carrier who thinks she does her job better when she is stoned. This is a dysfunctional ensemble à la Jonathan Franzen or Alison Bechdel, where narcissism is the glue that holds families together about as effectively as a used Post-It note. Only one relationship in the book lasts, and it isn't much of a model.

Whether you find these characters sympathetic or annoying might depend on your background, but the story holds up in either case. After all, we all carry our history with us. Alice, a painter, spends years working on a series of well-regarded portraits imagining who Casey would have been if she had lived. Nick spirals into addiction out of guilt that he could have prevented the tragedy, if only he had acted. We all know the feeling of "woulda-coulda-shoulda" -- if not about tragedy, then about the relationship choices we have made, and the ways that we accept or reject our mistakes.

Carry The One is ultimately a domestic drama, with a very talented writer taking on the emotional messiness of ordinary, flawed people. Whether she is describing Carmen visiting a steam bath with her Goth, anorexic stepdaughter or Nick on his way to the emergency room yet again ("Triage did not favor drunks and addicts"), Anshaw writes perceptively and sympathetically, with humor and patience. Our past is gone, she tells us, but never forgotten.

With the arrival of fireworks and popsicles, barbecues and bikinis, summer is officially in full swing. And as the temperatures skyrocket, a vacation mindset tends to take over, lulling us with the promise of simply feeling good. It's the season to escape the daily grind, so whether you're planning a leisurely staycation or heading off to swim, cruise, or explore a new city, go prepared with an e-reader filled with books that will perfectly complement your summery mood. Here are some interesting picks we think you'll find refreshing -- enjoy!

The Sandcastle Girls, by Chris Bohjalian
In his most personal novel to date, Bohjalian has created a historical love story steeped in Armenian heritage about a woman's journey through her family's past that reveals passion, loss -- and a wrenching secret that has been buried for generations.

The Hypnotist's Love Story, by Liane Moriarty
A hypnotherapist with daddy issues starts dating a seemingly great guy, until he tells her his ex-girlfriend is stalking him. Rather than running for the hills, our heroine is strangely intrigued and even eager to meet the stalker. Little does she know that she already has.

The Unfinished Work of Elizabeth D., by Nichole Bernier
After Elizabeth dies suddenly, her close friend Kate inherits her journals, which contain shocking revelations that force Kate to question all she thought she knew. Set shortly after 9/11, this is a story about what we show others, the secrets we keep, and the repercussions of our choices.

Arcadia, by Lauren Groff
It's the 1970s and a group of idealists decide to live off the land in western New York State, creating a commune on the grounds of a crumbling mansion called Arcadia House. Follow their wild, romantic ups and downs and the flourishing and decline of their utopian dream.

Bring Up the Bodies, by Hilary Mantel
This is the irresistible sequel to Mantel's Man Booker Prize winner, Wolf Hall. Now, enter the dark, delicious world of Tudor history and the dramatic lives of King Henry VIII, Thomas Cromwell, and Anne Boleyn, on trial for adultery and treason. The extremes taken to ensure her downfall are captivating.

Imperfect Bliss, by Susan Fales-Hill
A mom names her daughters after royals in the hopes that one day each will find her prince. But when a reality TV show called "The Virgin" comes to town and takes one sister as its star, the drama begins. A witty take on courtship and love and the way things have changed even as they've stayed the same.

The Yard, by Alex Grecian
Set in crime-ridden Victorian London, Scotland Yard has twelve second-rate detectives known as "The Murder Squad" -- until one is murdered. Together, the newest detective and forensic pathologist must track the killer. In fascinating historical detail, this novel showcases the depravity of the time period and the advent of criminology.

The Shoemaker's Wife, by Adriana Trigiani
This historic epic of love, family, and destiny begins in the gorgeous Italian Alps with two teens who fall hard for each other. Fate intervenes and separately they wind up in America. War and circumstance tries to keep them apart until the strength of their love changes their lives forever.

Did you miss Part One of our summer reading suggestions? Check it out here.

Read this book and you'll quickly realize: Junot Diaz's The Brief Wondrous Life of Oscar Wao is more than a novel. It is an oral tradition, an epic mythology.

Oscar de Leon is an overweight ghetto nerd, growing up in urban New Jersey. Constantly taunted about his weight, his love of sci-fi, and his writing, he's a walking joke. Especially with girls. Barring early childhood success, Oscar has never even had a girlfriend, a fact that questions not only his manhood, but also his "Dominican-ness." So we follow him as he searches for love -- guided by our scribe, the keeper of Oscar's tale, Yunior -- through Oscar's high school years, college years, and young adulthood, from the United States to the Dominican Republic, flanked by his mother and tough-yet-supportive sister, Lola. You see, it's their story too.

In fact, it's the entire family's story, going back to the island and Oscar's great-grandparents (the respected doctor and nurse), going back to the era of Trujillo, the DR's murderous dictator, and the ancient curse he's said to have served, or had serve him: the fukú. The fukú has haunted Oscar's family for generations -- ever since his great-grandfather was arrested over a joke -- and torments them still today.

In the end, though, we return to our hero, Oscar de Leon, the ghetto nerd himself, as he tries to simultaneously live up to (as a Dominican man) and get away from (as a member of a cursed family) his genetic inheritance to love.

Junot Diaz, through Yunior, writes in a fresh urban-literary voice. It's a voice both foreign and familiar, warm and humorous, even while providing info-packed encyclopedic footnotes. It's this kind of contradiction, this balancing act, which makes The Brief Wondrous Life of Oscar Wao incredibly readable and enjoyable yet brimming with honesty and emotion; which makes it ancient mythos yet entirely modern, sweeping yet intimate; which makes it, for Yunior and all the characters, both fukú and zafa (the fukú redress).

The long-awaited follow-up to Drown (Diaz's short story collection), The Brief Wondrous Life of Oscar Wao was published to critical acclaim. It won numerous awards, including both the Pulitzer Prize and the National Book Critics Circle Award, and quickly jumped onto reading lists everywhere. His new book, This is How You Lose Her, is due out in September.

I've read The Sun Also Rises, by Ernest Hemingway, a total of nine times. I first read it at seventeen; I'm now twenty-four. Doing the math, it turns out that, on average, I read this book 1.29 times a year, by far the most well-worn thing on my shelf (the second-place book comes to a mere .57). So why do I keep coming back?

Set in the 1920s, The Sun Also Rises follows a group of dispirited expatriates, from their drinking too much in Paris to their "fiesta-ing" (drinking way too much) in Pamplona. Now you may cry, "Monotony!" and in the hands of a lesser writer, I might agree. But this is far from the truth. You see, these characters are morally broken; they've been through a meaningless war and seen the world change into an unruly place, where romanticism and heroes can no longer survive; where everyone is bankrupt in their own way and always paying for it; where they've little control over anything.

Emerging from the group is Jake Barnes, an American newspaper correspondent. Like the rest of the group, Jake fills his time with drink and banter in cafes late into the night. But as he comes home and tries to sleep -- without the company (or rather the distraction) of alcohol or conversation -- the normally stoic Jake is forced to face his agony. Having been wounded in the war -- an injury that's left him impotent -- he's been cheated out of the life he expected and struggles with feelings of inadequacy and incompleteness. His entire life has been maimed. Yet, what haunts him more is the ultimate consequence of such a wound: that he'll never be with the woman he loves, the one and only Brett Ashley.

Brett is lustful and beautiful -- an independent New Woman of the '20s, bobbed haircut and all -- but she, too, is damaged goods. She's engaged to one man, awaiting divorce from another, and although she's in love with Jake, she can never be with him; she's lost all self-respect and has fallen victim to her impulsiveness. In a group full of "chaps," she's always the source of tension, the common denominator. They all love her. And like Circe, she turns them into swine.

The Sun Also Rises established Hemingway as a major literary talent. He was praised for his mastery of dialogue and deceptively simple writing style (one that would damn a century of aspiring writers trying to copy it). And although he went on to write other classics -- A Farewell to Arms and For Whom the Bell Tolls -- it's this book that brings me back 1.29 times a year. It's this book that stays most relevant, most modern. So much so, I'd say, that if you didn't know any better, you'd think it came out yesterday.

Curious just how much Jake drank during the novel? Here's a complete list.

In Divergent, Veronica Roth explores a life where people become the virtues they choose. Set in a futuristic Chicago, there is a new order: All citizens are to select a predetermined virtue, called factions, and dedicate their lives to fully realizing its responsibilities. The factions are Abnegation (selflessness), Candor (honesty), Dauntless (bravery), Amity (peace), and Erudite (knowledge). Each faction lives completely separated from the other, and interaction between them is extremely limited.

Beatrice Prior, known as Tris, is sixteen years old and, along with her peers, must choose her faction. While all candidates undergo a grueling test to discover their true faction, the choice is ultimately their own. Especially for Tris, who has spent her whole life in Abnegation, the ability to choose something for herself is difficult and foreign. Will she be able to decide what is right for her own future? Further complicating her decision are her errant test results: She is labeled a Divergent, a dangerous assessment that she is advised to keep to herself. She is not given any information about the Divergents -- not even a definition. With this particular lack of knowledge, the right decision seems impossible.

Tris surprises everyone, mainly herself, and chooses to be a part of Dauntless. As she braves the initiation process (which includes jumping off of buildings, catching moving trains, and intense fear simulations), she realizes the factions are not as pure as they may seem. She discovers certain Dauntless members can be mercilessly cruel, some Erudite members incredibly condescending, and even members of Abnegation massively selfish. More so, she faces the difficulties of growing up and leaving her family behind as she develops new friendships and unintentional enemies. One of the more mysterious and intriguing people she meets is a Dauntless named Four. As he and Tris develop their friendship, it becomes clear that their reliance on each other will be crucial to their survival.

It's easy to get caught up in the fast-paced action of this novel, but it's equally easy to fall in love with Roth's complex and endearing characters. Terrible things happen to many of the people Tris loves, but her unwavering focus is inspirational. Finally, here is a young female protagonist who isn't so much concerned with a love triangle as she is with making tough, moral choices. As Four explains to her, "Fear doesn't shut you down; it wakes you up." Combined with philosophical questioning of government and individual rights, Divergent makes a compelling read that will have you on the edge of your seat.

Every five years, Harvard University publishes and sends out what is unofficially referred to as "the red book," a much-awaited guide of sorts that contains alumni-written summaries of their lives of late. In Deborah Copaken Kogan's novel, The Red Book, she presents a moving story about college friends from the prestigious, door-opening Harvard, gathering for their twenty-year reunion. As human nature predicts, Kogan's cast is not entirely honest in their red book contributions, so it is compelling and bittersweet as we meet four best friends and discover the contrast between the portrayals of their lives in print and the truth that comes out at reunion. Hookups, deception, broken dreams, death, divorce, parenthood -- it's all here, tenderly rendered and poignantly brought to life.

Kogan lays out her novel as a narrative interspersed with personal red book entries. Here's a glimpse of the four besties:

Addison, an artist living in Brooklyn with her trust-fund writer husband and three children. Seemingly together but unraveling at the edges, she does it all, while her husband literally lays down the rules of why he won't help with childcare or offer emotional support. Perhaps that's why she hasn't slept with him in fourteen months.

Clover, type-A, a recently laid-off managing director at Lehman Brothers, desperate for children but stuck with an attorney husband who won't admit his role in their difficulty conceiving. A former hippie child, raised on a commune, Clover originally had a hard time fitting in with her Harvard classmates.

Mia, a talented actress in her college years, now an earthy den-mother type, married to a famous Hollywood director. Living a luxurious life in Los Angeles with her kind, down-to-earth family, she manages to keep it real and be grateful for her fortune. Beneath her mom-of-the-year exterior though, beats a heart that still longs to shine on the stage.

Jane, an international reporter haunted by death, both professionally and personally. Preoccupied by the loss of her mother and the death of her journalist husband in Afghanistan, Jane adamantly pushes away those who refuse to give up on her. She'll soon discover some family secrets that put her life in perspective.

Add some men to this mix, like Bucky, Clover's college lover who dumped her for "someone more appropriate," and Bruno, Jane's Frenchman who is determined to save her from herself, plus a panoply of regrets and second chances, and you've got one juicy, dramatic story.

So whether you're headed toward your twentieth college reunion or have already attended, you'll most definitely want to call some friends to confide and reflect after you put down this altogether satisfying read.

Packing for summer – whether for weeks or just days, beach bound or lake bound – is all about packing as light as possible, and that goal extends to your reading material. But if you’ve had any experience with vacation home-stocked bookshelf selections, you shudder at the idea of reading that dog-eared, saltwater-faded circa-1982 novel that, incidentally, you’ve read each summer for three years running. Which is why now is the perfect opportunity to stock your eReader with the best in summer books, don’t you think? Endless hot summer days lying in the sand or reclining with a bare leg hanging over the side of a well-worn hammock, and warm breezy evenings in the fresh air with nothing but moonlight and candlelight – this is the stuff readers dream about, and this summer is shaping up to be the kind of season that will leave no shortage of stories in which to get absolutely immersed. Here are a few you might like – from fiction to mystery to gossip – and the best part is that they go with any ol’ bathing suit you choose.

Friends Like Us, by Lauren Fox
Lauren Fox, the author of Still Life with Husband, brings us the story of Willa and Jane – roommates, best friends, mirror images. All is well in the land of friendship bliss ... until a young man from Willa’s past reappears and shakes things up.

The Chaperone, by Laura Moriarty
At the age of fifteen, star-to-be Louise Brooks is (begrudgingly) accompanied by chaperone Cora Carlisle on a trip to New York. This captivating novelization of the events that occur over the next five weeks in 1920s NYC is the story of a summer that will change two women for the rest of their lives.

Island of Lost Girls, by Jennifer McMahon
Rhonda finds herself caught up in a kidnapping investigation after witnessing the crime in progress in Vermont. While helping the case along, the young woman begins recalling her own childhood – and how her best friend also went missing years prior, never to be found.

Maine, by J. Courtney Sullivan
J. Courtney Sullivan’s Maine is the story of the Kellehers and the summer home upon which they descend annually. This summer, though, among an unexpected pregnancy, domestic frustration, and regret, surfaces sibling rivalry, alcoholism, social climbing and, of course, Catholic guilt.

The House at Tyneford, by Natasha Solomons
Vienna is no safe place for Jews in 1938, so teenager Elise Landau leaves her tony life for England, where she takes up a job as a parlor maid at Tyneford. With war around the corner, and the world changing so quickly, an unlikely friendship blossoms at the great house on the bay.

Top of the Rock: Inside the Rise and Fall of Must-see TV, by Warren Littlefield
The mid-'90s were a sort of golden age for primetime television. From “Seinfeld,” “Friends,” “Frasier,” “ER,” “Cheers,” “Law & Order,” “Will & Grace,” the behind-the-scenes deals, disappointments, decisions, and drama will have you completely engrossed in this juicy read.

Girls in White Dresses, by Jennifer Close
Welcome to early adulthood, where the wedding invitations come pouring in, but your own life is not quite as set in ink on ivory. In Girls in White Dresses, Jennifer Close introduces us to three friends at this point in life, perfectly capturing the wild frustrations and soaring joys of modern life.

Check back in July for Part 2 of our Fun Summer Reads for the Beach and Beyond!

Anna Quindlen’s  Lots of Candles, Plenty of Cake is an insightful, funny, and poignant memoir that you will most certainly re-read again and again. Much like she did with her popular column, “Life In the 30’s,” Quindlen writes invitingly about everyday life, though the focus is now on life in the 50s and 60s, and the aging baby-boomer generation of which she is a part. What’s wonderful about Quindlen’s writing is that she manages to be universally relatable, even when speaking of a very specific set of experiences. A major theme of these essays is, naturally, aging, as Quindlen is now in her late 50s, and I appreciated the different approaches she took throughout the book.

Chapters like “The Little Stories We Tell Ourselves” and “Older” are humorous, but also thoughtful. “Little Stories” recounts the joy Quindlen gets out of being able to stand on her head, or do a one-armed push up: things she always told herself she couldn’t do, especially at the age of 58. An amusing, lighthearted chapter, but also one that carried a striking message about pushing yourself to excel, no matter what the limitations. “Older” speaks of how relative the term “old” really is. What is old? Is it a creaky hip, or hot flashes? Or is it just a feeling, something that recedes into the future as you grow? Again, the chapter seems, on the surface, very directed toward Quindlen’s generation, but in spite of being part of a significantly younger generation, I found myself smiling in acknowledgment every few instances, and reflecting on the chapter later in the day.

Perhaps my favorite chapter was “Girlfriends,” which speaks of the importance of girlfriends in a woman’s life, especially as she grows older. Quindlen writes: “Ask any woman how she makes it through the day, and she may mention her calendar, her to-do lists, her babysitter … But if you push her on how she really makes it through her day, or, more important, her months and years … She will mention her girlfriends.”

Yes, woven into the chapter are mentions of babysitters, sons who bring home girlfriends, and household chores. But the sentiment is applicable to a woman in any stage of life. After all, what did I do after I read that chapter? I put down Lots of Candles, Plenty of Cake and called up a girlfriend. What did we talk about? As Quindlen says, “Who knows? Who cares … What would I do without her?”

As Gerald says to Paul Denton in Bret Easton Ellis’ classic '80s novel The Rules of Attraction: "No one ever likes the right person." Too often, 'tis true. Whether springing from the pages of any number of Jane Austen novels like Pride and Prejudice or Emma, Adele’s "Someone Like You" lyrics, or current reality TV offerings like "Girls Who Love Boys Who Love Boys," stars seem to fall out of alignment more often than they line up when it comes to love. In his latest novel, The Marriage Plot, Jeffrey Eugenides’ constellation of bright young things features several newly hatched adults as they enter and navigate the universe of the "real world." Though some might believe that the post-collegiate-love-triangle course has already been charted, Eugenides finds fresh emotional frontiers to tackle in his journeys into the heart's dark matter.

We begin early in the self-obsessed '80s, thrown headfirst into the lives of three college seniors at Brown University counting down to commencement and staring into the great beyond. The college experience is aptly drawn, down to the smallest details of dorm life intimacies, psychosexual dynamics in and out of the seminar room, and the requisite excitement + dread = ambivalence + fear about graduation and rocketing off into real life.

Friends, lovers, and classmates Madeleine, Leonard, and Mitchell are gravitationally bound to one another through their desires for understanding, validation, sex, and love. Longing for meaning, the dutiful, beautiful Madeleine provides an irresistible nexus for brilliant-but-manic Leonard and still-haven’t-found-what-I’m-looking-for Mitchell to orbit as they all morph into their grown-up selves and ultimately find their places in the universe. By exploring our trio’s varied interests — semiotics, nineteenth-century literature, the competitive world of research science, and spirituality vs. God, among others -- Eugenides makes their journeys feel undeniably meaningful and real, despite some of their seemingly esoteric nature. Going down the wormhole sometimes can lead to the greatest discovery.

Few writers inhabit characters the way that Eugenides does — as a reader you are so embedded in their thoughts you can only marvel at how he’s mapped their internal topography so completely, with few if any stones unturned. You can’t help but empathize with all of their ups and downs and round and rounds as they helplessly crash into each other on their inevitable ways forward. While The Marriage Plot may, at its core, turn on a simple love-triangle axis, its significantly hyper-dimensional look at life and love and what makes the world go round is deeply satisfying and worth the trip.

When was the last time you wrote a letter? Not a birthday card, not a quick note to go with a gift, not an e-mail. An actual letter, with pen, paper, time to reflect, space to be thoughtful and open, share a secret, put your heart onto paper. I’m willing to bet it’s been a long, long time but that the idea of receiving a letter like that is one that makes you happy. There are two great books that have correspondence at their heart: The Guernsey Literary and Potato Peel Pie Society by Mary Ann Shaffer and Annie Barrows, and Snow Flower and the Secret Fan by Lisa See. In each one, written correspondence is the key to survival, both literal and emotional.

During World War II, German troops occupied the English island of Guernsey off the coast of France as a strategic location. Residents were essentially kept under martial law with little or no access to the rest of the world. In The Guernsey Literary and Potato Peel Pie Society, the “society” in the title is created by those trapped on the island in order to meet and discuss plans and survival tactics under the guise of book discussions. (Not sure if you ever thought your book club could save your life, but this one may have for them!) This epistolary novel creates a moving portrait of a little known story during a tragic era; the wartime setting and Nazi occupation provide a level of urgency. Book lovers will also welcome literary references — to Jane Austen, the Bronte sisters, and, of course, Shakespeare — sprinkled throughout the letters penned by the townsfolk.

Though from a vastly different time, Snow Flower and the Secret Fan also has correspondence at its core. In nineteenth-century China, a seven-year-old girl named Lily is paired with a laotong, “old same,” a far-away stranger who becomes a lifelong friend. Together, Lily and her “pen pal” Snow Flower write secret messages in a special language created by Chinese women to communicate confidentially. The two women correspond into adulthood, sharing the agony of foot binding, the loneliness of  arranged marriages, and the joys and anguish of motherhood. The two take comfort from their “talks,” and a soul-sustaining bond is forged -- until a misunderstanding arises, and their deep connection is suddenly threatened. No spoilers here; you’ll have to read this unforgettable story to find out what happens.

Each of these novels is incredibly well researched and provides an intimate snapshot of a past era that will linger with you long after you have finished reading. At your next lunch with friends or book club meeting, ask everyone about the best letter she received or her favorite pen pal. I’m sure you will find that everyone has at least one story and is squirreling away a tattered and worn copy of a precious letter with her most valued possessions.

To note: Recently, special deluxe editions of these books have been released that provide additional background and insights from the author as well as book group guides for discussion. Check them out!

It is a question book lovers ask each other often: “What book has changed your life?” The answer, of course, changes with age and with life experience. Occasionally, or maybe not even that often, there is a book that you want to push from your mind and can’t seem to move from your nightstand at the same time. For me that book has been Pulitzer Prize winner Gail Caldwell’s Let’s Take the Long Way Home. It is subtitled “A Memoir of Friendship.” It’s that to be sure, but the level of this friendship is spiritual and as committed as the best of marriages. It is the gorgeous story of Gail’s friendship with fellow writer Caroline Knapp, author of Drinking: A Love Story.

The best friends met over their dogs, and talked about everything from books, rowing, and relationships with men, to their shared past struggle with alcohol. The title of the book originates from their desire to literally take the long way home on their walks in New England in order to have more time to spend together and keep talking. Heartbreakingly, several years into their connection, Knapp was diagnosed with stage-four lung cancer, which metastasized into other organs, and soon after diagnosis she passed away, leaving behind a shattered friend.

The writing in this story is flawless, just absolutely stunning. You won’t be able to read the first line of this memoir and walk away. “It’s an old, old story: I had a friend and we shared everything, and then she died and so we shared that too.” Having had the opportunity to meet Gail, I asked her about that first line and she stopped in her tracks and smiled – she said that she actually wrote that sentence years ago and put it away. I expect that maybe the book came to her in that way – in pieces as she was meditating on her loss. Grief can be that way, piece by piece. You should know that the page ends with the sentence, “Grief is what tells you who you are alone.” Sentence after sentence takes your breath away; it is that good. This book, of course, is many things to many people, but for me it is a pure love story.

This post originally ran on Liz and Gianna's Adventures in Book Land.