Lydia Netzer: Shine Shine Shine

“Look,” said Sunny, and she pulled the scarf back to show the baby’s face. “She’s here.”

“Sunny,” said the women. Those friends of hers said, “Sunny, she’s amazing. And she looks just like you.”

Thank you to my husband, Dan Netzer, and my friend Andrea Kinnear for understanding and interpreting Maxon for me, and writing the equations, proofs, and code snippets in this book. I came to you with a messy idea and you translated it perfectly into math.

Thank you to my agent, Caryn Karmatz Rudy, and my editor, Hilary Rubin Teeman, for the vision you had for this book. When I think back to that very first draft, I am struck by the way you both made the book immeasurably better.

Thank you to Sara Gruen and Karen Abbott, whose early support, ongoing wisdom, and loving encouragement have been invaluable in birthing this book.

Thank you to my early readers C. J. Spurr, Bekah James, Kate Bazylewicz, Heather Floyd, Kristen DeHaan, Sherene Silverberg, Patricia Richman, and Veronica Porterfield.

Thank you to the December mothers, the Quilt Mavericks, Cramot, and all my Norfolk Homeschooling comrades, for cheering me on, and for your radiant examples of excellent mothering.

Thank you to Susannah Breslin, who refused to let me settle, and kept pulling me back out of the sleep of motherhood, and making me be better.

Thank you to Joshilyn Jackson, who has been my fierce champion, and without whom this story would not have become a book.

LYDIA NETZER was born in Detroit and educated in the Midwest. She lives in Virginia with her two home-schooled children and math-making husband. When she isn’t teaching, reading, or writing her next novel, she plays the guitar in a rock band. Visit her on her Web site at http://www.lydianetzer.comor Facebook at http://www.facebook.com/lydianetzer.

When I was a child, I read in a tree.

My favorite reading spot was 20 feet above the ground, in a natural seat formed by the branches of an enormous pine tree. I often scuffed my knees on the climb up, book shoved into my waistband, fingernails dirty with the sap I absently picked at while I read. Raised by two school teachers with jobs in Detroit, I only had access to my reading tree during summer vacations.

In Detroit, we lived in a condo, we went to the library, and I read material the library deemed appropriate for children: Judy Blume, Marguerite Henry, Madeleine L’Engle, Susan Cooper. In Pennsylvania, in the summer, we lived on this isolated old family farm, and I read the only material my mother deemed appropriate for humans: 19th century British literature.

It was tough getting those lousy hardbacks to stay in my waistband all the way up the tree, but I managed to stick it out through George Eliot, most of Dickens, Ivanhoe, and the Brontes. American lit was off the table, even the stuff from 100 years ago. Harpoonists sweating half-naked over oars? Lusty puritans cavorting in the northern woods? Extracted heart throbbing in the baseboards? Forget it. I guess my mother figured out that if I could wring any damaging sexual content out of The Mayor of Casterbridge , or if I still wanted to procreate after stomaching the gloom of The Mill on the Floss , there was nothing she could do.

I know it wasn’t all prudishness. She was proud of my willingness to put away the horse books and sci-fi for the summer, and delve into something toothier and challenging, that I could only wrestle with in the absence of school, and the city. In the company of trees and the occasional woodpecker I could pine for those lordlings and bold orphans, and fear consumption and workhouses and the disapproval of maiden aunts.

Now I’ve sent my son and daughter up that same tree, with Percy Jackson novels or American Girl books tucked into their belts. I did not inherit the wary eye with which my mother viewed books written by Americans, but I did take away the sense that for me, summers are reserved for braver reading. Summers are for books that stretch you, for cracking open the unknown, and having the mental space to immerse.

This summer, I will not be reading Thackeray, okay? Sorry, mom. I’ll now admit that reading The History of Henry Esmond made me want to walk into the sea in despair. But this summer when I pack to go to the farm, I’ll be loading up with books that are big and unfamiliar, like Ben Marcus’ The Flame Alphabet , books I need space to comprehend, like Robert Goolrick’s Heading Out to Wonderful , books that are best devoured in the big uninterrupted chunks of time that only vacation from regular life can give me, like Chris Cleave’s Gold . And I might just climb that reading tree myself this year, to see what big ideas may linger.

“Not only entertaining, but nuanced and wise … blending wit and imagination with an oddly mesmerizing, matter-of-fact cadence, Netzer’s debut is a delightfully unique love story and a resounding paean to individuality.”

“Netzer’s storytelling method is as poetic as her language. She slowly assembles a multitude of pinpoint insights that converge to form a glimmering constellation … a stellar, thought-provoking debut.”

“Over the moon with a metaphysical spin. Heart-tugging … it is struggling to understand the physical realities of life and the nature of what makes us human….Nicely unpredictable…Extraordinary.”

“You’re pulled into the drama through the incredible natural beauty of her writing … deftly and wittily done … people say her style reminds them of Anne Tyler, but she reminded me a little bit more of Don DeLillo.”

“Entirely winning … a refreshingly weird story about the exuberant weirdness of familial love.”

“Netzer deftly illuminates the bonds that transcend shortcomings and tragedy. Characterized by finely textured emotions and dramatic storytelling, Netzer’s world will draw readers happily into its orbit.”

“Netzer has beautifully crafted an original story with a cast of characters who make up an unconventional but strangely believable family… This story will shine, shine, shine for all adult readers.”

“The novel traces Maxon and Sunny’s relationship from their childhoods in Burma and Appalachia to outer space, revealing the futility of chasing an ideal of what’s normal… Shine Shine Shine breaks free of the gravitational pull of traditional romantic clichés.”

“Lydia Netzer’s luminous debut novel concerns what lies beneath society’s pretty surfaces — Sunny’s congenital hairlessness, her husband’s remoteness, their son’s autism. What makes it unexpectedly moving is how skillfully Netzer then peels back those layers, finding heartbreaking depth even in characters who lack ordinary social skills.”

“Netzer has penned a modern take on alienation, building a family, making connections — creating memorable characters and an odd, idiosyncratic, but highly believable narrative along the way.”

“Netzer uses [Sunny and Maxon] to explore the limits of love, family and what it is that makes us human and to create a tale that is utterly compelling and original.”