Books like Sense and Sensibility

France claimed me early, when I was a teenager. A French major, a Rotary scholarship year in the Loire Valley, and decades of return visits later, I'm still not done with this gorgeous country. Since retirement, my husband and I spend at least several weeks there every year, and in 2011, we lived in France for three months during an adult gap year. My third book, a novel set in Paris and Normandy, is the most recent evidence that France and her food, wine, culture, literature, art and landscapes, have never loosened their hold on me.

I started reading thrillers when I was twelve—Grisham, Patterson, anything I could get my hands on. I learned quickly that in those stories, men were the ones doing the saving. They had the adventures; women were either the obstacle or the one being rescued. That’s why I love where the genre is now. I get to read stories where women take control—sometimes saving the day, sometimes going further than they probably should. It’s changed how I read, and honestly, it’s shaped how I think about storytelling. These are the kinds of books that made me want more—and made me want to be part of that shift.

I am drawn to books in which family history is never as simple as it first appears. I have always loved fiction about memory, silence, and the choices people make when they discover that something they believed about their past was not entirely true. As a novelist, I keep returning to these themes because I am fascinated by the way family stories shape who we become. I am especially interested in women who have to rebuild their sense of themselves when old explanations stop making sense. The books on this list stay with me because they do more than reveal secrets; they show what happens after the truth is known.

I like books about big families, especially unusual ones, but I have only one sister and only one child, so when I set out to write about these families, I read about them first. We place so much importance on how kids are raised, what kind of childhood and home life and family they have growing up, what gifts and what challenges they’re bestowed by genetics, history, identity, society, circumstance. Siblings usually share all or at least most of these markers and yet turn into often wildly different adults. It’s also true that all those fine sibling balances – love/hate, adored/annoyed, admired/appalled, alike/different – are great fun to read and write.

I grew up in a household with a secret at its center, one that I've long suspected held trauma. Long before the formation of the family I was born into, my mother was a divorcee with a young child, my eldest sister (a fact I only found out by finding a photo of my parents’ wedding with my sister in it!). My mother refused to tell my sister anything about her biological father or the circumstances of the divorce, saying only that she “preferred to pretend that part of her life had never happened.” I never did learn the full story. Needless to say, novels that give their protagonist that chance are very close to my heart.

I like books about big families, especially unusual ones, but I have only one sister and only one child, so when I set out to write about these families, I read about them first. We place so much importance on how kids are raised, what kind of childhood and home life and family they have growing up, what gifts and what challenges they’re bestowed by genetics, history, identity, society, circumstance. Siblings usually share all or at least most of these markers and yet turn into often wildly different adults. It’s also true that all those fine sibling balances – love/hate, adored/annoyed, admired/appalled, alike/different – are great fun to read and write.

Writing is about the metaphysical as well as the rational if it’s any good. As an author, I am always more interested in the wreckage of a crisis than the crisis itself—in the aftermath. Survivors search for purpose above all else. They undertake long sojourns, seek spiritual counsel, or find solace in art or politics. As a writer who has dealt with illness for most of my adult life, I think one path that is shared by all these novels is the discovery of agency—over one’s body, one’s choices, and one’s own life and death. There lies meaning.

Maybe because I’m a novelist, I’ve always loved reading novels about writers—it’s a joy to see my passionate relationship with my own work reflected in these fictional solitary obsessives, my literary siblings. Reading about their own writing gives me a sense of recognition, community, and solidarity, and makes me feel less alone in this odd vocation, which is no small thing. I can’t get enough fictional evocations of the daily discipline of the writer’s life—as well as the trajectory of a literary career—from adolescence (Jo March) to old age (Leonard Schiller). 

As well as being a novelist, I am also a script editor for film and TV. I specialise in thriller narratives and big themes in screenwriting, so it's no accident I am drawn to them in fiction too. Dystopian worlds offer such a rich backdrop for the BIG questions and observations. By putting new societies and threats under the microscope in stories, it can hold a mirror up to what's going on in real life. I think of dystopian novels as being akin to the canaries in the coal mine: they are not only cathartic, they sound the warning bell on where we are going as a society ourselves.

I am a lover of romance. I feel love is one feeling that no one can get rid of; it is one of the elements that can patch up hurt, and it is also an element that can be expressed in many different forms. Having a wide imagination also adds to this passion. I grew up watching Disney movies such as Ariel and FairyTopia. Not only do I draw my inspiration from movies but also from books. I love reading romance books, the image we create in our mind can take us beyond some images created in movies. It takes us to a world we normally don't see in real life.