It's been snowing here since before Christmas. Not much for some parts of the world, admittedly (I sent a picture of my kids sledging to a friend in Canada and she emailed back 'nice frost') but, for us on the south coast of England, it's a totally new experience.

Things I like about the snow:

1. The quiet. No cars, no school run, just that all-enveloping white blanket. Comforting and scary at the same time.
2. The kids playing outside all day in a huge feral gang. This is what childhood should be like (this attitude gets me into trouble at parent/teacher evenings)
3. Not having to shop.
4. The beautifying effect. Our garden is full of rusty toys and dead plants – under the snow it looks like a winter wonderland.

Things I don't like:

1. Worrying about my mum, who is housebound. Luckily she is just an hour's trek away and I've done this every day. Her first words to me: 'where are the mince pies?'
2. Being cold.
3. Having to wear hundreds of layers. Getting ready to go out is a major undertaking and earmuffs are not a good look on a forty-something woman.

I'm trying to write a book. It's the third in the Ruth Galloway series and is tentatively entitled The House at Sea's End (my publishers invariably don't like my titles). The trouble is, it's set in the spring and I keep wanting to make it snow...

My favourite snow scenes in books:

1. Lucy meeting Mr Tumnas in The Lion, the Witch and the Wardrobe. Apparently C.S. Lewis suddenly had a vision of a faun in the snow, carrying parcels and an umbrella – this was the start of the whole Narnia series.
2. James Joyce The Dead
3. Lorna Doone "...the snow came on again, thick enough to blind a man..."
4. Any detective story where they are snowbound in a spooky old house but, especially, C J Sansom's Dissolution.
5. Any scene in Anna Karenina – I bet she never wore ear muffs.

Elly Griffiths' is the author of the Ruth Galloway novels which are set on the Norfolk Coast of England. The books take their inspiration from Elly's husband, who gave up a city job to train as an archaeologist, and her aunt who lives on the Norfolk coast and who filled her niece's head with the myths and legends of that area. Elly has two children and lives near Brighton. The Crossing Places, the first in the series, is just published in the USA, and has received extremely positive reviews from BookBrowse's members. Visit Elly online at ellygriffiths.co.uk

This holiday, in between shopping for presents, I began reading an amazing book, The Gift: Creativity and the Artist in the Modern World by Lewis Hyde. It is, in part, about the cultural meaning of gift exchange, and though my timing in reading it during Christmas was coincidental, the resonances were very welcome. By day, I would buy gifts and experience a familiar twinned pleasure and guilt at all the consumption. By night, I would read The Gift and find myself getting to the source of that dual emotion.

Hyde's book distinguishes the gift from the commodity, and gift exchange from market transactions. A gift is that which carries with it a value, an excess, a surplus to its recipient. You receive an object--say, a book--but you also receive the spirit of the gift, the intention and love that animates the book and makes it a directional arrow into the life of its recipient. A commodity, by contrast, is something that has no excess, because its value has been perfectly expressed by its price. A market transaction can only occur when both seller and buyer agree that the trade is equal and fair, when the scale is balanced.

Hyde's genius is to apply this clarifying analysis of two different systems of value to the work of an artist--and he means "work" both in the sense of the artist's labor and her product. Both are gifts. Put far too simply, an artist can create when she is "gifted" by inspiration, and her art becomes a gift because it conveys to its audience the same plenitude of spirit. Hyde's book becomes a lyric, hopeful meditation on how an artist can "survive in a society in which works of art are treated not as gifts but as commodities."

As soon as I started reading The Gift, I instantly knew I wanted to give it to my brother, but I just as instantly knew that I couldn't.

My brother is a writer like me and I could imagine him dancing in his seat with excitement as he read the same pages I'd been underlining for days. But my brother hasn't given me a gift in years. I unfailingly send him birthday and Christmas gifts, but he stopped reciprocating several years ago. I realized that if I sent him The Gift, especially right before Christmas, he'd take it as a rebuke. Surely that's not what Hyde means by a surplus which animates the gift. I felt horrible that I couldn't act on my good intention, and confused as to why this gift had suddenly grown so fraught.

Fortunately, the very gift itself promised to untangle my dilemma. Through his reading of folk tales and tribal practices, Hyde has discerned several rules of gift-giving, and they are not necessarily intuitive ones. His central insight is that the gift must keep moving. He does not mean that we cannot keep our Christmas presents. Rather, the recipient must place the spirit of the gift back into circulation, passing the largesse on to someone else, and the wider the gift-giving circle, the livelier the community that results.

And so the Monday after Christmas, I called up my local bookstore and ordered a copy of The Gift for my brother. The Tuesday after Christmas, a package arrived at my door. It was from my brother, a box of gifts for my whole family. He had gotten each one of us a perfectly aimed book.

Amy Reading

True to her last name, Amy Reading makes a living reading, freelance editing, and writing. She has recently completed a Ph.D. in American Studies from Yale University and is working on a book that grows out of her dissertation, a history of American con artistry. Books reviewed by Amy at BookBrowse.

'Begin at the beginning,' the King said gravely, 'and go on till you come to the end: then stop.' (from Alice and Wonderland, by Lewis Carroll)

Remember when summer stretched out endlessly before you, and kind people fixed you snacks while you sprawled on the floor in impossibly limber positions reading to your heart's content? Well I do, and even though I haven't taken a real summer vacation in my entire adult life, I still compile my reading list as if I'm heading off for a month-long sprawl in the Hamptons. With 23 books on my "shortlist" for this already-waning summer, even if I got on the Jitney right now I'd never finish them by Labor Day. Woe is me, woe to all of us readers who still race into a bookstore with the breathless hope of school children on holiday. Because I remember what it feels like to turn the last page under the same setting sun that rose that morning, and nothing can replace the feeling of being completely immersed in a story from beginning to end.

Which is one of the many reasons I love short stories. I may not have twelve hours to read everyday, but I certainly have twelve minutes, and so far I've read over 30 short stories this summer, most in a single satisfying gulp:

If you read only one collection on this list, make it Kevin Wilson's Tunneling to the Center of the Earth. The stories grab you from the first line (It took me damn near a week to convince Sue-Bee to come watch this guy shoot himself in the face) and surprise you with shocks of tenderness mingled with absurdity. Many of these stories involve some little tweak of reality that makes them loveable, funny, and engaging, illuminating their often sad underpinnings. The opening story, "Grand Stand-In," is narrated by an older woman with no family of her own who answers an ad in the paper: "Grandmothers Wanted - No Experience Necessary." Soon she's employed by a Nuclear Family Supplemental Provider - in short, she's a rent-a-grandma for five families whose own matriarchs have died before their kids got to know them, or who are too unwell to be any fun. In a novel such an improbable premise would likely devolve into science fiction of the least interesting kind. But in 26 pages, Wilson makes this a beautiful and deeply human meditation on loneliness, and the expectations and failures of family. My favorite story in the collection, "The Museum of Whatnot", involves a serious young woman who cares for a museum of obsessively collected junk, and an older doctor who comes in once a week to stare at the collection of ordinary stainless-steel spoons. All of the characters in these stories are lonely; each story is about finding a way to become a little less lonely – in the most unusual ways.

Even if I wasn't already a fan of Maile Meloy's writing, I would have read Both Ways Is the Only Way I Want It for the title alone. In the collection's penultimate story, a conflicted husband reflects on a poem by A.R. Ammons (One can't/have it/both ways/and both/ways is/the only/way I/want it). He lies curled up with his wife of three decades, comforted by her intelligence and aging beauty, while he contemplates leaving her for the recently-teenaged girl who taught their now-grown children how to swim. The force with which he wanted it both ways made him grit his teeth. What kind of fool wanted it only one way? Each of the eleven stories poses this same question, as affairs, marriages, and childhoods teeter on the edge of decision: go or stay, live it up or keep on living. None of the characters are terribly likeable, but their interior conflicts make us feel for them, even as we narrow our eyes at their lack of fortitude. In "Two-Step", a woman reflects on her best friend's unfaithful husband: He was acting like the man he wanted to be, in hopes that he could become it. He would keep acting until he couldn't stand it anymore, and then he would be the man he was. These are stories about people becoming who they are, and the great drama is in the wishy-washiness of the wrestling. Meloy's prose is clean, but not too spare, detailed without feeling labored, quiet, but never detached -- all of which elevate the often piddling nature of the central conflict to great emotional effect. For a writer these stories are examples of true craftsmanship, and for a reader they are just plain good.

Unlike Meloy's, Simon Van Booy's characters in Love Begins in Winter dive after love without hesitation, act on mysterious coincidence, and bandage their tragic wounds with new memories. The stories are on the long side (50-70 pages), offering the reader more time to piece together the fragments of characters and story. Van Booy writes with a combination of chunky, breath-paused sentences and poetic fluidity. The rhythm reminds me of someone recounting a dream – each detail built upon the last, gaining momentum until the revelation erupts:

One day, George Frack received a letter. It was from very far away. The stamp had a bird on it. Its wings were wide and still. The bird was soaring high above a forest, its body flecked with red sparks. George wondered if the bird was flying to a place or away from it... Then he opened it and found a page of blue handwriting and a photograph of a girl with brown hair. The girl was wearing a navy polyester dress dotted with small red hearts. She also had a pink clip in her hair. Her hands were tiny.

The handwriting was full of loops, as if each letter were a cup held fast upon the page by the heaviness of each small intention.

When George read the page, his mouth fell open and a low groaning resounded from his throat.

Van Booy is generous with philosophical musings and declarations about love, life, memory, which, paired with coincidence and fateful encounters, give these stories an ethereal, other-worldly quality – much like the suspended-in-time feeling of falling in love.

My copy of Lydia Peelle's debut collection, Reasons for and Advantages of Breathing, is filled with bookmarks notating remarkable lines and passages, starting with the first line of the first story: My father was eighteen when the mule killers finally made it to his father's farm. Each story demands to be read in one sitting, but you'll need a break in between to take in their often surprising emotional heft; this is no lightweight collection, and Peelle knows how to break hearts. In my favorite story, "Sweethearts of the Rodeo", the narrator remembers the summer she and her best friend spent together as wily stable girls - "the last summer, the last one before boys."

We are covered in scrapes and bruises, splinters buried so deep in our palms that we don't know they are there. Our bodies forgive us our risks, and the ponies do, too. We have perfected the art of falling.

The story is alive with the proud fearlessness of these rough-and-tumble girls who still know how to play, undaunted by the dawning awareness of the adults misbehaving around them. (Rodeo is our favorite game, because it is the fastest and most reckless, involving many feats of speed and bravery...) Writing mostly in the first person plural, Peelle nails the inseparable pair, the fierce solidarity, the superiority that is possible only in childhood. "Sweethearts" is deeply atmospheric – for a few pages I really lived in that hot, dusty world, wishing I'd been a sweetheart of the rodeo. As I reached the last page, guessing at some loss of innocence approaching, all of a sudden my throat caught and my eyes filled – a sudden cry escaped when I reached the last paragraph. No plot spoiler here; nothing "happens," except the end of that summer, the summer before boys. I couldn't read anything else the rest of that day – except for this one story, over and over again, to try and figure out how it was done, and to spend another moment inside that summer.

-- Lucia Silva

In addition to being a key reviewer for BookBrowse, and our content editor, Lucia is the book buyer for Portrait of a Bookstore in Studio City, CA, and manager of The Book Works in Del Mar, CA. She can also be heard recommending books on NPR's Morning Edition with Susan Stamberg, and on KPBS in San Diego. More reviews by Lucia

An endless supply of quotes exist telling us we should do what we love in life. Though many are cliché, I found myself rooting around for just the right one after hearing Alexander McCall Smith read from his latest book, Tea Time for the Traditionally Built. Having read most of the books in his No.1 Ladies' Detective Agency series, I was eager to see and hear in person the man who brought me the much adored Precious Ramotswe. As I entered the Borders bookstore in Ann Arbor, it was evident that I was not alone.

Since I probably haven't had the pleasure of listening to someone read to me since kindergarten carpet time, it was with happy nostalgia that I sat cross-legged and elbow to elbow on the bookstore floor, listening to the cadenced voice of Mr. McCall Smith. Bewitched by his lilt and laughter, he quickly transformed the packed room of overwrought adults into a sea of sunny, eager faces as he read his favorite passages from Tea Time.

Now if you haven't read any of the No.1 Ladies' Detective Agency books, it would be prudent to inform you of their beautiful simplicity. Sprinkled with charming formalities, this modern day series lends itself an air of forgotten sophistication and decency so integral to the traditions of Botswana. The detective, Mma Ramotswe, cheerfully runs her laid-back operation with both cunning and disarming common sense. In signature McCall Smith style, these modest mysteries quietly play themselves out while the background literary score pays tribute to the deep-rooted customs and ways of Botswana.

Referring to himself as a "serial novelist" in the Q&A portion of his appearance, the author made no apologies for the multiple series he now has moving through the markets, and quite frankly we don't want him to. With three series in addition to The No.1 Ladies Detective Agency, the prolific McCall Smith claims to write on the road, in the air, or wherever his travels take him. When asked how he keeps all of his characters straight, a broad smile takes over his face as the question inevitably cues up their images. Like a proud father, confusing his creations is not a problem; he knows every nuance of his characters including voice, personality, strengths and vulnerabilities. Clearly born out of creative love, McCall Smith regards his characters with a wistful and paternal adoration only solid nurturing can bring about.

Taking in the vibrant crowd, I sat marveling as each brief pause between questions brought about the fervent waving of hands, showcasing that age old "pick me! pick me!" determinism. One such hand belonged to an enthusiastic, heavyset woman in the front row. Quite overcome, she tearily thanked Mr. McCall Smith for making Mma Ramotswe a "woman of traditional build." She said that having Precious Ramotswe portrayed as a heavier woman "made her feel beautiful again."

Equally poignant was the comment shared by a dark, lovely woman, dressed in her bright yellow Sunday best. Waving throughout the majority of the appearance, the author finally chose her to end the session. Beyond pleased, she broke into the traditional greeting of Botswana, charming both Mr. McCall Smith and the audience at large. We listened intently as she thanked him for portraying her country in such a positive light. She added that her people constantly hear about America and that it is nice to be able to share the beauty of her homeland with others.

As I made my way home, I realized that this excursion meant to satisfy my curiosity had actually shaped itself into something far more humanitarian. Rather than self-promotion, Mr. McCall Smith seemed absolutely delighted to simply share both his words and our company. As readers, we wonder about the author behind the works that move us, and hope deep down that the real life version measures up. We give ourselves over to the imagination and creativity of others, also with the hope of finding growth and inspiration. For me, Alexander McCall Smith's sunny, engaging manner simply validates the importance of pursuing our passions in life. After all, as philosopher Albert Camus once said, "But what is happiness except the simple harmony between a man and the life he leads?"

Suggested Links
For a biography of Alexander McCall Smith and links to excerpts of a number of his books, visit BookBrowse
For an extremely comprehensive bibliography listing books by publication date in the UK and USA, BookBrowse recommends fantasticfiction.co.uk

Freelance writer Megan Shaffer has both her Bachelor and Master degrees in Education. She currently works in the schools of Birmingham, Michigan where she shares her love of literature. When Megan is not in the classroom, she is actively involved in the local literary scene and maintains a blog about new books and authors. Megan's reviews at BookBrowse

Davina Morgan-Witts, BookBrowse editor

Humans are much like fruitcake. Now, I know fruitcake analogies are hard to swallow for most American readers but, as a born and bred Brit, I love (a well-made) fruitcake - so go with me on this for a moment!

When we're young the things we learn, and especially the 'truths' we discover for ourselves mix the essential ingredients of our character, forming the person we'll become - they become baked into our adult selves. As adults, we keep on learning and discovering but very rarely do new ideas impact us as powerfully once we get into our middle years - they form the icing on the cake, not the cake itself (and yes, before you ask, in England we do ice our fruitcakes - particularly for weddings and Christmas).

I was struck by this recently while rereading one of my favorite childhood books and remembering how I felt the first time I read it. Manxmouse by Paul Gallico is a gentle fable about a blue tailless china mouse who magically comes to life. Born without fear because 'no one is born frightened or fearing anything', Manxmouse travels through the English countryside befriending the large and small, both animal and human, and living through any number of narrow escapes, but wherever he goes he is told that he 'belongs to Manx Cat' and slowly fear grows in him. Determined to take control of his destiny he travels to the Isle of Man (home of the manx cats) to face his fate.

Reading Manxmouse to our daughter over the last couple of weeks has been an immensely enjoyable experience, but the pleasure for me has come more from recollection and seeing her enjoyment than in the reading itself. Reading the story as an adult simply doesn't have the the impact that that first reading did oh so long ago, and wouldn't have done even if I'd never read it before. In fact, I can confidently say that few books that I've read in the past couple of decades have left the mark on me that those early childhood favorites did - and the reason for this is simply that the profound insights first discovered in the pages of books such as Manxmouse, that stirred my thinking in new ways, are old news to me now.

Much is written about the importance of children reading but, to me, the most fundamental reason to read good books young is usually overlooked.Yes, being able to read well is a great advantage to getting good grades, a good job and all that - but more profoundly, good books enable children to discover for themselves who they are and what matters to them - they provide essential ingredients that, when baked in the slow-oven of childhood, shape the adults we become.

No doubt some will say that such lessons can be found in many places, not just in the pages of a good book, and I'm sure they're right.  But I can't help thinking that there is something about the experience of reading and discovering ideas for the first time in the quiet of ones own mind through the pages of a book that allows the penetration of thoughts deeper and more profoundly than a TV sitcom or any number of late-night sleepovers. Others might disagree. I can only speak for myself, that much of what I am, think and feel came from the pages of a handful of books that I discovered before the age of 13, a disproportionate number of which were written by Paul Gallico.