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Q&A with Sarah McCoy, author of The Baker’s Daughter

“She’d learned that the past was a blurry mosaic of right and wrong. You had to recognize your part in each…and remember. If you tried to forget, to run from the fears, the regrets and transgressions, they’d eventually hunt you down and consume your life….” ~ from THE BAKERS DAUGHTER


They say history repeats itself. More often, though, history seems mirrored in present events. Details and scenery have changed, but we, as humans, still grapple with the same convictions, the same truths.

In Sarah McCoy’s novel, THE BAKER’S DAUGHTER, the past and the present come together in El Paso, Texas in the lives of Reba Adams, a journalist, and Elsie Schmidt, a woman who came of age in Germany during World War II. When Reba sets out to write a simple story about Elsie and her German bakery, she realizes that this story will not come easy. She returns to the bakery again and again. The histories of both women unfold and reveal that, no matter the time or place, nothing in life is black and white. In every decision we make, we risk consequences, and sometimes we face tragedies. Reba and Elsie find courage, compassion, and love.

THE BAKER’S DAUGHTER is an international bestseller and is currently in the semifinals for the Goodreads Choice Awards Best Historical Fiction. If you’ve read the book and love it like I did, you can help vote THE BAKER’S DAUGHTER into the finals by clicking here.

I’m honored to host Sarah McCoy today, where she talks her novel, how she discovered the story, and the effect that writers have on readers (and vice versa). Leave your name in the comments for a chance to win a copy of THE BAKER’S DAUGHTER. The winner will be chosen on Tuesday, November 20th.

And now, welcome Sarah McCoy!

CC: In your story, memories of the holocaust and current issues facing US Border Protection come together at the counter of a small German bakery in El Paso, Texas. The two stories – of Reba and Riki, of Elsie and Josef – blend so well. What inspired your idea for the novel?

SM: I spent a portion of my childhood in Germany where my dad, a career military officer, was stationed. My husband also grew up in Germany, speaks fluent German, and worked at a restaurant that shows up in the novel–the Von Stueben– during his college holiday. So we both have ties to the German culture. Fast forward a decade, we moved to El Paso. The local magazine asked me to write a feature article on the German community. The Luftwaffe has trained fliers in the United States since 1958. In 1992, they consolidated their troops at Holloman Air Force Base, New Mexico, just up the road from El Paso. For the feature, I shadowed a local baker and his team at Marina’s German Bakery. Michael, the owner, graciously allowed me to interview him, his staff and customers, poke around the kitchen and come home smelling of gingerbread and cardamon. It fed my creativity, one could argue.

Not long after that article ran, I went to an El Paso farmer’s market and met an 80-year-old German woman selling her own homemade bread. I was completely smitten by her, and all that I imagined she might have experienced in her life. While picking out my brötchen, I asked how she came to be in El Paso. “I married an American soldier after the war,” she told me. Voila! Elsie, my 1945 protagonist, was born. My memories of living and traveling in Germany served as my imaginative landscape and fueled my hunger to research the country and its people during those last awful months of the World War. Teaching at the University of Texas at El Paso during that time, many of my students wrote about their fear and anxiety regarding the deportation of family and friends. I imagined many in Germany (Aryan, Jewish, etc.) felt similarly. Thus the stories wove themselves together. I didn’t start off thinking, “Oh, yes, of course, I’ll pair Germany and El Paso.”

In my books, I lean toward taking two seemingly unrelated settings, time periods and people, and weaving a grand tapestry that connects them. The only separation is time and space, like the ends of a table runner. In my reading, I find those kinds of stories the most fascinating. I try to write what I would be beating down the bookstore door to read.

CC: Several characters in The Baker’s Daughter face moral decisions, to follow the rules or follow the heart, and we read of the consequences in doing both. I was especially struck by the harsh reality of the women in the Lebensborn Program (I had never heard of such a program!), as told through the letters from Elsie’s sister, Hazel: following the rules did not guarantee anyone immunity from the pains of the war. How did you go about researching subjects like this for the novel?

SM: Again, I hate to play the “inspiration” card, but I didn’t set out to write about the Lebensborn Program. I didn’t go “researching” it. It came to me as I was gathering my landscape: the German community in 1945 Garmisch. My storytelling always begins with characters–usually having a discussion in a scene– and I can’t get their voices out of my head. This was how Elsie, Jane, Reba and Riki developed. From there, I fill in the setting of their world. One of the things I love about writing historical-contemporary hybrid fiction is that because I live in modernity, I can see and speak of things ancient people couldn’t. I have the benefit of hindsight. I’m able to pluck certain bizarre facts from the history books and ask, “What is that? Tell me more.” And then Google around for weeks until I’ve found as much information as technology has to offer on that subject. It’s a remarkable age we live in! Archives and historical data across the globe can be found if you are willing to put in the Internet surfing hours.

So when I saw a snippet about the Lebensborn Program, I stopped. I knew it had to be a part of the book. That, too, is one of my ardent goals as a writer: not just to tell a whimsical story that entertains my readers, but to educate, inform, and take them on an archeological journey that exposes some aspect of our shared human past. It goes back to that table runner analogy. Yes, we might be at the end where the tapestry is bright and new, but that doesn’t mean we aren’t a product of the thread at the sun-worn other. One day, vivid patterns will be looking down the table at us.

CC: A few months ago, you traveled to Holland for an international book tour, and, recently, you returned from the Southern Festival of Books in Nashville. How is touring and meeting readers overseas different from a book tour in the US?

SM: It isn’t that different at all. People are people no matter where you go. Yes, their names might be different but their smiles, embraces, and enthusiasm for my work is the same. I adore my Holland readers just as much as those in Nashville, New York, and San Francisco.

I feel incredibly blessed that the book has remained on the Dutch Bestsellers List since it launched in spring 2012. That blows my mind! Equally so, I was humbled to tears at an El Paso book event when a 91-year-old woman told me that THE BAKER’S DAUGHTER taught her more about the German people in WWII than she’d ever known–and she lived through the war years. Similarly, I met a Jewish woman of the same age in Holland who cried and kissed my cheeks. While I couldn’t understand the words she spoke, the emotion was so significant that I was left physically trembling. Again, I believe in the connection of our human spirits, past to present. I’ll cherish those moments for the rest of my life. It’s what fuels my writing: giving voice to the voiceless and forgotten or unknown stories.

CC: What are you reading these days?

SM: I’ve actually just returned from California, final leg of book tour for THE BAKER’S DAUGHTER. I have a contract deadline for my 3rd novel due to my publisher (Crown/RH) this summer. So I’m currently reading nonfiction books related to my 3rd book’s historical and contemporary settings. While on tour this summer and fall, I scheduled some vital research stops on both the East and West Coasts. Now home, I’m digging into those notes and the documents I obtained from the historians at each of those stops. It’s quite a bit of research reading, as you can imagine.

This being the case, I’m not reading any fiction. However, I have a stack of books from my fellow featured authors at the Booktopia Santa Cruz event: Tayari Jones’ SILVER SPARROW, Matthew Dick’s MEMOIRS OF AN IMAGINARY FRIEND, Ann Packer’s SWIM BACK TO ME, Tupelo Hassman’s GIRLCHILD, and so many more! I’ll no doubt pick up one of those when I have a break in my creative flow. Or an audiobook! I wasn’t much of an audiobook listener but being at Booktopia with narrators Simon Vance and Grover Gardner has turned me on to the idea. Their voices were just so… lovely. Simon’s narration of Hilary Mantel’s BRING UP THE BODIES is on my list. Oh dear, so many choices. I’m sure readers feel this same way!

CC: What advice can you offer writers on the rise?

SM: One of the best nuggets of wisdom I ever received came from my mom when I was seven-years-old and had been admitted to my school’s GT (Gifted & Talented) program. She told me, “You’re not ‘gifted’, honey, you’re just a high-achiever.”

As an adult I questioned why she said that. It sounds so harsh! She explained that she never wanted me to assume that opportunity and success was owed to me by virtue of talent. It’s like Albert Einstein said, “Genius is 1% talent and 99% hard work.” Such solid truth. I’m grateful my mom championed humility, drive, and perseverance rather than simply stroking my ego. I pass on that advice because it’s proactive. It puts the ball back in your court and encourages you to get ready to swing hard.

SARAH McCOY is also the author of the novel, THE TIME IT SNOWED IN PUERTO RICO. She has taught English writing at Old Dominion University and at the University of Texas at El Paso. The daughter of an Army officer, her family was stationed in Germany during her childhood. She calls Virginia home but presently lives with her husband and dog, Gilbert, in El Paso, Texas. For more about Sarah and her books, visit her website, follow her on Twitter, or subscribe to her Facebook page.

Remember: leave your name in the comments for a chance to win a copy of THE BAKER’S DAUGHTER. Random.org will choose the winner on Tuesday, November 20th.

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Finding My Footing, Making Connections

On the Outside.

We're not old at allIt’s been four months since I began facilitating the Creative Writing class at Retirement center, and I’m still trying to find my place within the group. I love these writers: they’re enthusiastic, prompt, always willing to share their stories. But, at times, I struggle with how to guide them.

They are a diverse group: a few are interested in submitting their work, others just enjoy reading their stories, some attend simply to listen. And, in the one hour we are allotted (the center keeps those folks busy!), there is no time for a real critique, only a few moments for reflection on individual pieces, and much of the discussion leads to reminiscing common experience.

This is where I stumble most, when the great divide of a generation(s) gap leaves me speechless.

Sometimes, the writers lead their own discussion, with several heads nodding and plenty of “Oh yes, I too remember when….” For those moments, I am grateful. But, when the table is quiet and all eyes turn to me, I feel the pressure of a lost connection. I know the common experiences (between young and old) are there, and I know, once I push past those uncomfortable feelings, I will find them.

Get Personal.

What I need to do, I realize now, is share a little more of me. At our monthly meetings, they often ask me to read what I’ve written on the prompt. So far, I’ve shared short pieces of fiction (since that’s what I tend to write). Next time, though, I’ll do what I’m asking them to do: dig deep for a memory that begs to be shared.

The Prompt.

Breaking the rules.* That’s it. No explanation, just three little words. But those words, I imagine, will yield stories to which we all can relate.

How do you break through uncomfortable feelings? How do you find connections with folks twice your age? Or, better yet, when do you break the rules?

* This month’s prompt comes straight from the Readers Write section of The Sun Magazine. If you decide to write on “Breaking the rules,” consider submitting your piece to The Sun. The deadline is January 1st.

Photo credit: Iñaki Pérez de Albéniz on flickr.com

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A Book Recommendation & Guest: Patricia Ann McNair

The Book

“Our actual Mission is to use stories to build community. It’s not just about creating good stories; it’s about employing those stories to connect people to one another.” ~ Amanda Delheimer Dimond, in Briefly Knocked Unconscious by a Low-Flying Duck

Briefly Knocked Unconscious by a Low-Flying Duck is a collection of stories originally told to a live audience on the 2nd story stage. While there is something quite powerful about listening to a story read out loud – about the effect of the words as they circle the air and settle into our ears, our mind, our hearts – the stories on the pages of this anthology carry as much weight as I imagine they did on stage.

As Dimond says in the quote above, stories serve to connect us. Pick up this book and find yourself in these pages: in a moment between father and daughters that doesn’t go according to plan but unfolds in perfect succession; or at a funeral when everyone knows the truth but no one speaks a word. One of my favorite stories, written by Patricia Ann McNair, speaks to the power of place, how, whether we leave a place whole or broken, memories settle deep within us and urge us to return.

The Guest

I’m honored to host Patricia here, where she writes about confined spaces and moments of reveal and the journey it takes to reach the crux of our story.

Driving the Story
by Patricia Ann McNair

On a long car trip to Montana from Chicago with a friend I barely knew, I told her about how, when I was seven or so, my mother made me return a shoplifted lipstick and a tiny plastic doll to Woolworths. The embarrassment was meant to steer me away from a life of crime, I think. I told my friend the details: my mouth so dry I squeaked I forgot to pay for these; the doll’s dress marked by my moist palms; my mother in front of the store in the car with her window down, the smoke from her cigarette lifting into the blue suburban sky.

On the same trip, my friend told me about what it was like living with her schizophrenic brother. About each of the once-loved family cats buried in the backyard by her father after their deaths of old age mostly, but sometimes of something else, some feline disease.

When I met my half-brother for the first time he was in his fifties, I was in my thirties. And we drove over the backroads of inland Maine, up and down the mountains, past freezing streams. It was autumn, 14 years after the autumn our father died. He told stories about growing up without his father; I told stories about growing up with mine. With ours.

On a car trip in Vermont in the late summer of 2000, a man from England told me about his life in London, his art, the coal miner grandfather who helped his mother raise him after his father died in a military accident when he was five. I told him about the trip I took to Cuba just months before, about my quiet life in the city with my cat, about my impending divorce. The man’s name is Philip Hartigan. We have since married.

So what is it about car trips that compel passengers to tell one another stories? Is it the closeness, perhaps? How being trapped in a small space for some time makes it near impossible not to want to fill the empty air between you? Radio stations come and go as you follow the curves of the highway; talk is better than static. There is only so much music you can agree on. With that audience so close by, how can we not want to share something, to reveal something? They have to listen. It is their only option.

It is this car-journey-story-impulse that led me to the telling of “Return Trip,” my essay in the anthology Briefly Knocked Unconscious by a Low-Flying Duck. Philip and I were on the road for hours, returning to a place that had become important to us. We’d made the trip other times, and each time we learned a bit more about one another.

I don’t want to tell too much about what is in this essay; I am hoping you will pick up the book and read it. In brief: September 11. Woods. A cabin. Students. A cat. My mother. Writing. Dunes. Fall leaves. Love. Death. Place. And the piece, finally finished to be read/told on stage before an audience, came to me like stories do when we are telling them: in bits and pieces, with tangents and sidebars and strange connections. As Philip and I drove to a cabin in the woods some years after the first time we made that drive, I couldn’t help but remember what happened here along the way. And here. And here. And when we reached our destination, I had to write it all down.

It might sound like this was an easy process, a quick one—just capture the moments on the page. Ha! Writing is rarely that easy for me, and I sometimes wonder if a piece is ever really finished. This one, “ReturnTrip,” took a few years. I wrote the first draft(s) in two weeks. That is, two weeks of daily writing, four hours at a time. I shopped it around. It got rejected. I put it away. I came back to it. Tweaked and tinkered. Put it away again. Then, when it came time for me to prepare a piece for 2nd Story, the wonderful Chicago-based live reading and storytelling series, this was the one I came back to. Why hadn’t it been successful before? What did it need? One of the really interesting things about 2nd Story stories is that nearly all of the stories told have a very visible point of discovery, some might even say an epiphany. A place in the story when the teller finally understands the purpose of what she is telling, and the audience can, too. I think, up until I was working on the essay for this particular reading, I did not really know what the story was about. I knew what I was telling, the events of the piece, the happenings. But I had yet to discover its “aboutness.”

I have a friend who tells stories that he thinks sometimes go on too long. (Hi, Ted!) I don’t agree with him; I enjoy his anecdotes greatly. But often at some time during his telling, he says: My point—and I do have one—is… Here’s the thing—“Return Trip” needed a point. My point is… After some years, I finally figured it out. My point.

I’m not gonna tell you what is here; you gotta read it. But below is a little taste of what fueled the piece.

Back in the car, with my mother. We are driving through woods turning colors, and she is asleep. It is the last driving trip we will take together and I want to tell her something. Stories. Something. I want her to tell me what I don’t yet know. My point, Mom, I would say if she were listening, and I do have one.

I do.

Patricia Ann McNair is the author of The Temple of Air, her own collection of short stories that has received much recognition, including the Devil’s Kitchen Reading Awardee in Prose, Finalist Awardee for Midland Society of Authors, and Finalist for Chicago Writers Association Book of the Year Award. She’s received four Illinois Arts Council Awards and was nominated for the Carnegie Foundation US Professor of the Year. McNair teaches in Columbia College Chicago’s Fiction Writing Department. For more about McNair and her writing, visit her blog.

Briefly Knocked Unconscious by a Low-Flying Duck releases from Elephant Rock Books on November 12th. Watch the book trailer here.