Years ago, when I was drafting “Between Silk & Wool”, people would ask me why I wanted to write about WWII. Hadn’t everything about the war been excavated already? Was there anything new to say?
The question was posed sincerely, with genuine curiosity. WWII literature is a canon unto itself, and the challenge of telling a familiar story from a different angle wasn’t lost on me. Did I have something different to reveal to the reader? My research had surprised and intrigued me. Would my characters be strong enough to surprise and intrigue readers?
These were my hopes a year ago when “Between Silk and Wool” was released. Since then, what a whirlwind it has been to meet readers and hear their insights about what the story meant to them. I had hoped the novel would touch readers; I never imagined the degree to which I would be on the receiving end of so many letters and personal stories.
Read MorePapa Santos is a father after my own heart. When his now grown sons would bicker, argue, and escalate to blows, he would make them take off their shirts and hug one another bare-chested.
“This is your brother. Your only brother.”
He would solemnly repeat this mantra, ignoring the smell of their perspiring bodies, only allowing them to untangle themselves when their anger subsided. Today the sibling relationship bears the fruit of reconciliation from the loving persistence of their father.
I’m not sure child psychologists would prescribe this unorthodox method of conflict resolution today, but I still love the image of angry, sweaty brothers locked in a close embrace. In a world of cynical adversaries shooting pointed barbs across the Twittersphere, I could sell tickets to a show where people who find themselves at odds get in the ring and are forced into a drawn-out, skin on skin hug. No talking points, no agendas, no one single winner. Just Papa Santos chanting (whispering?): “This is your brother.”
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