![Made by Mary by [Brown, Laura Catherine ]](https://images-na.ssl-images-amazon.com/images/I/51l-SBpJRUL.jpg)
THE BOOK: Made By Mary.
PUBLISHED IN: 2018
THE AUTHOR: Laura Catherine Brown.
THE EDITOR: Dina Guidubaldi.
THE PUBLISHER: C&R Press: We love books. Literature matters because words lets us explore and share the best of what we think, and who we can be. Good fiction, nonfiction, and poetry grow our knowledge and imagination, take us into new lives, and illuminate truths we never knew. https://www.crpress.org/
SUMMARY: Made by Mary is a black comedy that uses magic realism to blow up myths about womanhood. When 50-year-old Mary, a jewelry-making, pot-growing, goddess-worshipping hippie, offers to carry her daughter Ann’s baby, since Ann was born with no uterus, they plunge into the morally complex world of reproductive technology, where they’re forced to confront the calamitous consequences of pursuing their deepest desires.
Between a daughter’s debt, and a mother’s due, there is a whole territory of resentment, love, fury, devotion, and mutual incomprehension. This is a novel about the way we get born, and reborn, and surrogately born. The way we make fun of our foibles and fads without losing sight of what is eternal and earnest: the desire to sustain the species, to love our family no matter how it came to be, no matter how it spirals into the infuriatingly silly or the inimitably sublime.
THE BACK STORY: I think almost all literature begins with a question, something I’m curious about, haunted by, or something I want to imagine more fully.
The questions I had when I began writing Made By Mary were about childbearing and motherhood. At a certain point in a woman’s life she switches from trying not to get pregnant to maybe wanting to get pregnant. Then it’s a question of how bad does she want to get pregnant? Will it happen? Won’t it happen? If it doesn’t happen, what transpires from that? What do you make of your life? In retrospect, I realize I was living those questions. Everyone in the book is me, including Joel, Ann’s husband. There’s magical thinking, denial, anger, fear, generosity, love and just a lot of stuff I was going through around the question of bearing children and being in relationship.
WHY THIS TITLE?: I went through hundreds of titles. Made By Mary stuck because Mary is an artisan, a jewelry-maker. She’s needy and flawed, and wants to take credit for making worlds and lives and meaning. And she does all this, but not in the way she imagines.
WHY WOULD SOMEONE WANT TO READ IT? If you liked books by Starhawk, and if you’re interested in Paganism and modern-day animism in rural America at the turn of the century (aka 2000), you will like this book. If you have ever wanted, had or struggled with fertility and children: bearing them, raising them, neglecting them, loving them, grappling with the consequences of their actions and yours, you will like this book. If you have a sense of humor and enjoy larger-than-life people who, by their very nature, disrupt the world around them, you will like this book.
REVIEW COMMENTS:
From The Lit Pub (https://thelitpub.com/sins-of-the-mothers/):
“Made by Mary gives us tremendous insights not only into the feminine and maternal journeys but into human nature as a whole…It asks us to examine what we sacrifice for others and why… What does it mean to give life? To have life inside of you? Do we have no life if we do not bring another one into this world? What does it mean to live one’s own life? There’s a fine, delicate equivalence between outrageous humor and very serious subject matter…Brown is successful in achieving that balance. Her astute observations give depth and clarity about the misguided ways in which we interpret our own lives and sacrifice them at the altar of external acceptance and norms.”
AUTHOR PROFILE: My debut novel, Quickening (https://www.amazon.com/Quickening-Novel-Ballantine-Readers-Circle/dp/034543773X/ref=tmm_pap_swatch_0?_encoding=UTF8&qid=&sr=), was published by Random House and featured in Barnes & Noble’s “Discover Great New Writers” series. My short stories have appeared in several literary journals. I’m also a graphic designer. I received a BA from the School of Visual Arts in Manhattan and support my writing habit by working as a graphic designer, which I love because the medium keeps changing from print to web to video. It’s exciting. I’ve been a dedicated yoga practitioner and instructor for over 20 years, having studied a variety of styles and traditions of Hatha Yoga. These three pursuits: writing, graphic design and yoga; have a common thread. All three require practice, dedication and constant, ongoing surrender. There’s a yoga concept called “effortless effort” that I think applies to any creative or spiritual endeavor, or just life in general, no matter what you’re doing.
AUTHOR COMMENTS: My life is filled with powerful complicated women. I really like writing them, and very much wanted to approach these characters through the experience of being embodied, navigating existence in a woman’s body. As women, we often take an outside look at ourselves, a very critical look at how we fall short. I also hope to address everything with humor. The saddest situations can sometimes give rise to the most hysterical hilarity. The line between laughing and crying can be porous. Finally, I’m compelled by life’s mystery. Despite incredible technological advancements, at the heart of pregnancy and birth lies a mystery. I wanted to get at that mystery.
SAMPLE CHAPTER: Made By Mary is divided into five parts, based on the elements (in the following order): Earth, Air, Fire, Water, Spirit. Here is an edited excerpt from the opening of Air, that can give the reader a sense of both Mary and Ann (and a bit of Joel, too, whose voice gets a section in the novel, though not in the following excerpt):
Made By Mary (excerpt)
“Our success rate stands at 45%, the highest in the industry,” said Dr. Godwin, the director of the Center for Human Reproduction. “We’ve had sister surrogates, friends, strangers—but you’re our first mother-daughter team, and we’re very excited.”
They sat across from him, three in a row, Mary in the center. With his prominent ears and boyish smile, Dr. Godwin resembled a leprechaun, a trickster, capable of magic, the kind of man who had turned Mary on before she’d declared herself a lesbian.
“A 45% success rate sounds like a 55% failure rate.” Joel perched on his chair as if any second he’d vault to his feet, shouting, Put up your dukes!
“We look at cycle percentages and factor in retrieval rates resulting in live births.” Dr. Godwin rattled off numbers and criteria, things Mary spaced out on. She splayed her fingers to examine her rings, her force-field of strength, with a ready explanation for each, in case anyone should ask: gold with tiger’s eye to guard her spirit, Mother-of-pearl and onyx yin-yang to balance her chi. Jade for healing, lapis lazuli for love and, of course, her mother-ring, identical to Ann and Joel’s wedding rings, an expression of solidarity.
She caught Ann’s gaze, her daughter’s pale blue eyes almost transparent, rimmed by short, blunt lashes as bleached as her straight blond hair. Somehow in the light, enhanced by the mauve upholstery and carpet and walls, Ann was illuminated in a lovely pink aura. I made you! Mary wanted to shout. And I can make another you!
“How long will the process take?” Joel cracked his knuckles. “Or are you going to throw out smokescreen numbers on that, too?”
Typical man. Mary tried to catch Ann’s eye again, to exchange a private communion about men’s need to dominate, but Ann was leaning forward, utterly engrossed. “What about the chances of having a baby like me, without a…?”
Mary broke in. “Without a uterus. Good question.”
“I don’t think the research bears out a genetic component.” When Dr. Godwin smiled, dimples appeared in both cheeks. “As for the timing, let’s say everything goes smoothly. Once cycle synchronization begins, we’re talking about four weeks for egg stimulation. Then we harvest the eggs and fertilize. A few days later we transfer the pre-embryos. Two weeks after that, a positive pregnancy means you’re in the hands of your obstetrician. Which comes to seven weeks. I suggest we work aggressively for the transfer. At your age, we don’t worry so much about multiple births, we just want a take-home baby.” He aimed his boyish smile at Mary. How appealing he was, even when calling her old!
“What about Mary’s weight?” said Joel. “It’s not just the age factor. She’s carrying some extra weight.”
He got her with that one. Count your blessings, Mary’s mother used to tell her, fat women stay youthful-looking longer than slender ones. More flesh, fewer wrinkles, it works in your favor now. Mary grabbed her blubber through her shirt. “Are you calling me fat? More to love is what I say.”
“You shouldn’t grab yourself like that,” said Ann.
The scolding made it worse. One hundred eighty-three pounds at five feet, four inches, Mary was aware of moisture seeping into the folds of her flesh. Her hip creases were damp. She nudged Ann. “I think I’m power-surging!”
“Too much information, Mom.”
“You’re not, as we say, morbidly obese,” said Dr. Godwin with his quick smile. “You’re a healthy woman. And a little extra weight seems to improve the chances of implantation.”
“If only my mother were alive to hear this,” said Mary. “All these years, I’ve been healthy, not fat.”
Ann jiggled her foot, bumping rhythmically into Mary’s chair. “When you said multiple births, did you mean we could have more than one?”
“Twins are not uncommon. I’ve heard them referred to as ‘the jackpot,’” especially if they’re one of each gender,” said Dr. Godwin. He rubbed his palms together so briskly Mary imagined sparks flying out.
“That’s crass,” said Joel. “The jackpot.”
“Let’s think twins. We’ve got yin on one side…” Mary grabbed Ann’s hand, then clasped Joel’s sweaty one. “…Yang on the other. And I’m the circle to hold them.” They both tried to disengage but Mary had a strong grip. She shut her eyes to call on Demeter as the goddess appeared in the marble likeness on Mary’s altar, with her torch and sheaf of wheat. But, instead of Demeter, a vision of Dr. Godwin with the hind end of a goat materialized, consort and son of the universal mother. She opened her eyes. “I’m going to call you Dr. God.”
#
Ann remembered her childhood in fragments, each memory an island surrounded by a void. She didn’t recall leaving Peace Ranch but she recollected arriving at the yurt with Mary and Lars. At the end of a dirt road with a mound of grass in the center, bordered by bushes that scraped the sides of the car, the yurt stood in a field, a giant cylindrical tent with a mounded top.
It was beautiful, with its three-layered walls, rafters, and tension cables. The apex of the roof was covered with a clear dome. The space inside was circular, with dividers to separate the kitchen and the bathroom. No doors but a cozy nook with a single bed for Ann.
Boulder, Colorado. Outside of Boulder. West, if you want to get technical, said Lars.
Annapurna likes getting technical, don’t you? Mary’s smile dazzled. Her happiness was contagious. An island.
Ann remembered watching Lars’s long fingers press guitar strings, sliding from fret to fret along the neck as he taught her how to play. He called her a quick study. Another island.
He was an artist. To paint from nature, he would roll up his sleeping bag and mat, hoist his backpack on his shoulders with his paints, easel, and canvas, and trek high into the hills. He stayed away, sometimes overnight, sometimes a couple of days.
In his absence, Mary let Ann sleep with her, spooning her in a soft, warm hug. Play our cards right and he’ll adopt you, she whispered. And we’ll travel all over the country: Oregon, North Carolina, Arizona. That’s the beauty of the yurt, we can set up anywhere. We belong together. Me and Lars are soulmates. And soon, I hope to give you a sister or a brother, you’d like that, wouldn’t you? Ann was happiest then, in bed with Mary, listening to their beautiful future.
Lars left one afternoon while Mary was at work. She worked at a self-serve gas station in a little booth, collecting money. When she wasn’t doing that, she was sitting at her drafting table with her silver and her beads and her semiprecious stones. Tell your mother the winds are changing and I have to go.
Ann was trying to learn chords on the guitar, his guitar. Lars stroked her beneath her chin, forcing her to look into his fierce blue eyes, like an icy lake. Tell her I’ll be back when the north winds blow.
He left behind his tubes of oil paints, an unfinished landscape drying on an easel, clove cigarettes and two gallon jugs of chlorophyll. His saucepan and his Coleman stove hung off his backpack, clanking as he walked away.
When are the north winds supposed to blow? Why didn’t you stop him? When Mary came home, she threw a fit, overturned her drafting table so all the beads and stones lodged in the rug. She ran around screaming, then she curled into bed and refused to get up.
For days, as she watched Mary sleep, Ann strummed the guitar and practiced Travis picking until her fingers hurt. It sustained her through those endless, frozen hours. First, they ran out of milk and eggs. Then they ran out of rice cakes. In the morning the school bus stopped, honked, and moved on.
When the truant officers came, they shouted and knocked but Ann wouldn’t let them in. By the time the police arrived, there was no food left at all. When’s the last time you went to school? a policeman asked.
They found half-smoked joints in the ashtray and seeds embedded in the rug. Get up, you’re under arrest. Magic words, they broke the spell. Mary got out of bed, donned her clothes, and laced her boots.
Ann remembered being driven to a big, shabby house in the center of town. An aproned woman led her down a hall to a bedroom crowded with bunkbeds. On the wall hung a picture of cherub-cheeked children in a meadow with the words: Suffer the little children to come unto me.
The woman was wearing rubber gloves. She was always cleaning something. Ann recalled the contoured texture of rubber against her palm when the woman shook her hand, and remembered how the woman peeled off the gloves to kneel on the floor by the bottom bunk. This is your bed now. Shall we pray?
Twelve children lived at the house. For breakfast, numerous cereals were lined up on the counter. Before every meal, they bowed their heads and prayed: Bless us our Lord for these thy gifts, which we are about to receive through thy bounty and through Christ our Lord, amen.
The man in the house wore thick glasses, magnifying his eyes so they seemed to float away from his face. Before dinner he added a lengthy sermon to the prayer and the meatloaf would be cold by the time they were allowed to dig in.
On Sunday, no one was permitted to eat until they had been to church. A blue cotton dress was presented, ironed and starchy and too small for Ann; it dug into her armpits. Standing, kneeling, singing, she felt her soul rocked in the bosom of Abraham, as the lyrics of the gospel song went, and she remembered feeling that she would survive. Another island.
Evenings were predictable: Chores, homework, prayers, bed. Chores were designated on a chore wheel. Drying dishes: Annapurna. The sight of her name brought a strange thrill, and she took great care in drying, pressing the towel edge between each fork prong until the woman said, We don’t abide laziness here. You must learn to be more efficient.
Ann wasn’t unhappy except at night when she lay awake, not knowing where Mary was, fearful that Mary was afraid, painfully aware that Mary needed her. Then she sobbed into her pillow until she drifted off to sleep, waking again only after she had already wet the bed.
Even now, as an adult, Ann could conjure the cold fear churning in her stomach, the harshness of the blanket and the crinkle of the plastic sheets, the shame of bedwetting. The other kids jeered. They said she smelled like pee. They called her Cooties, broke her crayons, and pinched her arms.
She missed the yurt then, and Lars. And she began to miss Peace Ranch, too, not sleeping in the children’s room, but the brook where everyone swam on hot afternoons, the sweat lodge and full moon rituals when they joined hands and danced in a circle, when Mary was happy, her laugh deep and infectious.
In the morning, Ann felt okay, or, rather, she didn’t feel anything, and that became okay. When a letter arrived from Mary she opened it slowly, easing the flap, so as not to tear it. I love you Annapurna Peace and I miss you. A drawing of a sad-faced sun. We’ll be together soon, I promise. I love you very much, Mom. Intricate swirls and doodles of flowers decorated the border. Ann pressed the paper to her face, smelling Mary’s patchouli with a longing so deep it suctioned her breath right out of her.
Later, she had no idea what might have happened to those letters. They had slipped into the void between islands. Then came a viscerally memorable moment: Annapurna, you have a visitor. And there stood Mary, horribly out of place in her brightly embroidered denim skirt, her hiking boots and Heidi braids interlaced with purple ribbons.
They were ushered into the visiting room, a first for Ann. She had seen the other kids walking in there with adults, closing the door. Now it was her turn. The parlor was wallpapered with faded pink roses. Two sofas faced each other with two armchairs on either side, a rocking chair in the corner. A stack of Bibles sat on the coffee table.
Wow, a rocking chair! Mary went straight for it, while Ann sat stiffly on the edge of the sofa.
Do you like it here? Mary rocked back and forth with peculiar urgency.
The inchoate, incommunicable immensity of an answer lay beyond Ann’s skill. It’s okay, she finally said.
Well, I’ve come to give you a choice. You can stay here for a little bit longer, or you can ride on an airplane to Gran’s house. Mary stuck the end of one of her braids between her teeth. She was sucking on it while she rocked.
I want to stay with you.
I’m sorry. It’s foster care or Gran’s, just for a short time. I promise. Mary burst into tears and Ann jumped up, hugging her head, her soft brown hair, stilling the rocking chair. She clung. I want to stay with you.
Gran met her at the airport, a stern woman with a sharp gaze and blue eyes the same shade as Mary’s. Your mother makes a virtue out of chaos but I hear you’re the levelheaded one.
WHERE TO BUY IT: C&R Press, Amazon, Barnes & Noble, etc.
PRICE: $19.
CONTACT THE AUTHOR: lauracatherinebrown@gmail.com
FB: @Laura Catherine Brown
Twitter: @lauracbrown
Insta:@lauracatherinebrown
Website: https://www.lauracatherinebrown.com/
THE BOOK: Tucumcari![The Maximum Security Book Club: Reading Literature in a Men's Prison by [Brottman, Mikita]](https://images-na.ssl-images-amazon.com/images/I/51dVpokU4GL.jpg)
THE MAXIMUM SECURITY BOOK CLUB,” BY MIKITA BROTTMAN.
THE HUNGER SAINT is a story of hope and survival set in post-WWII Italy. Hailed by Kirkus Reviews as “a well-crafted and affecting literary tale,” this historical novella follows the journey of Ntoni, a twelve-year-old boy forced to labor in Sicily’s sulfur mines to support his family after his father’s untimely death. Faced with life-threatening working conditions, Ntoni must choose between escaping the mines and abandoning his family. Following tradition, his mother has signed him over to many years of hard labor in exchange for a soccorso morto, literally translating to a “dead loan.” This is essentially a system of indentured servitude that exists between the carusi and the miners they will assist in the mines. Ntoni still conspires for his freedom. As a series of unforeseen events soon complicate his plans, Ntoni realizes that all is not what it seems and to trust anyone might prove to be as fatal as being trapped inside of a cave-in. The Hunger Saint draws from years of historical research and was informed by the oral histories of former miners still living in Sicily today.![Glad to be Dad: A Call to Fatherhood by [Myers, Tim J.]](https://images-na.ssl-images-amazon.com/images/I/41OfnPHYc8L.jpg)
Tim J. Myers is a writer, songwriter, storyteller, and senior lecturer at Santa Clara University. His children’s books have won recognition from the New York Times, NPR, and the Smithsonian; he has 16 out and more on the way. He’s published over 130 poems, won a first prize in a poetry contest judged by John Updike, has three books of adult poetry out and a nonfiction book on fatherhood, and won a major prize in science fiction. He won the West Coast Songwriters Saratoga Chapter Song of the Year and the 2012 SCBWI Magazine Merit Award for Fiction. Find him at 
(Dinosaur museum, Tucumcari, NM. Photo from Tripadvisor).
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THE BACK STORY: In 1980 John Lennon was killed by Mark David Chapman, who believed he was Holden Caulfield, narrator of the classic “The Catcher in the Rye.” After the shooting, Chapman remained on the scene calmly reading the book, which he later offered to police as his statement. Years ago as a student teacher at Andover High School, my mentor handed me a VHS tape of an old Dateline video which featured this bizarre story. Every year I taught Catcher, I would play that video for my class–and found myself equal parts enthralled and horrified with the tragedy again and again. When I stopped teaching after my third child was born, the story for 