Caitlin Hicks's Blog: Book Reviews

Sunshine Coast, British Columbia — The NYC Big Book Award has recognized KENNEDY GIRL in the category of Historical Fiction as a Distinguished Favorite in their literary competition of 2024. This follows upon an earlier award for the first book in the Annie Shea series, the audiobook of A Theory of Expanded Love, which also won Distinguished Favorite with NYC Big Book Award in 2022.

The competition was judged by experts of the book industry, including publishers, writers, editors, designers, booksellers, librarians and professional copywriters. Winners and distinguished favorites are based on overall excellence.

​KENNEDY GIRL, published by Brown Posey Press (a subsidiary of Sunbury Press), Pennsylvania in 2023, takes place in Southern California in 1968.

An uncontrollable series of events transform the lives of two teenagers the night of RFK’s assassination. Annie Shea, the unforgettable heroine of A Theory of Expanded Love returns in this coming-of-age adventure about love, justice and the memorable year of 1968. (Getty images photo credit). 

Other recent awards for KENNEDY GIRL include Finalist in Cross Genre Fiction for The 2024 American Fiction Awards. Awards were presented for titles published in 2022-2024 and can be accessed here: https://www.americanbookfest.com/2024afafullresults.html

In British Columbia, the Sunshine Coast Writers and Editors Society awarded KENNEDY GIRL an Honourable Mention, Sunshine Coast Voices in their second annual Book Awards for BC Authors contest. https://www.scwes.ca/contests

 

 

Loving a black man during the Turbulent Year of 1968, Annie Shea in Kennedy Girl wins finalist at AmericanBookFest

17-year old wannabe radical, Annie Shea, escapes the claustrophobia of her Catholic family when she solos in a production of the radical musical HAIR, and falls for a talented black dancer, Lucas Jones. Drawn to Robert Kennedy’s Dream for America, she becomes a KENNEDY GIRL volunteer. In the wake of his assassination in June, 1968, Annie is caught in the zeitgeist of The Sixties between her own future, her Black Panther boyfriend and her AWOL brother as they run from the police,  the FBI and their own secrets, searching to find their place in the world.

LOS ANGELES – American Book Fest has announced the winners and finalists of The 2024 American Fiction Awards. Winners and finalists were announced in over 70 genre specific categories. Awards were presented for titles published in 2022-2024.

“Thank you to the authors, publishers and other industry professionals that participated in the 2024 American Fiction Awards. American Book Fest is proud to announce the final results of our 7th Annual Fiction Award Program! Congratulations to all of the Winners & Finalists for their much deserved recognition!” 

—Jeffrey Keen, President & CEO, American Book Fest
Full results for the 7th Annual American Fiction Awards can be found at: https://www.americanbookfest.com/2024afafullresults.html

Winners and finalists of this year’s contest join a prestigious group of past laureates from our family of book awards, including Pope Francis, Amy Tan, Anne Lamott, George Sanders, Julie Andrews, Clive Barker, Vanessa Williams, Shark Tank’s Daymon John, Brad Thor, Kitty Kelley, and many others. Visit the Award Laureate page for an expanded list: https://www.americanbookfest.com/aboutuscontactus/laureates.html

American Book Fest covers books from all sections of the publishing industry—mainstream, independent, & self-published. A 20-year timeline and award archives can be found at https://americanbookfest.com/aboutuscontactus.html

American Book Fest has an active social media presence, with over 133,000 current Facebook fans.
Facebook: https://www.facebook.com/AmericanBookFest
Twitter: https://twitter.com/AmerBookFest
Instagram: https://www.instagram.com/americanbookfest/

 

Here was the initial news! My FULL email inbox

July 2024Just Announced! You have been honored in the 2024 American Fiction Awards!Kennedy Girl by Caitlin HicksBrown Posey Press, and imprint of Sunbury PressFinalistCross-Genre Fiction

A town named Redemption

 

 

One of the first people I shared my first novel with (A THEORY OF EXPANDED LOVE ) – George Payerle – said something that I will remember for the rest of my life. I had given my manuscript to him to read because I didn’t know if it was any good at all. And I was told that George would know.

George was a writer – who figured in the Canadian writers landscape; he was one of the founders of The Writer’s Union of Canada; he had lots of experience, a lot of writers knew who he was. I didn’t know him personally but I hoped if he gave me the green light – If my story at least had ‘promise’, I could carry on.

The novel contained humorous musings of a twelve year old girl in an enormous Catholic family in 1963, desperate to be noticed. And I had no idea if it qualified as a ‘novel’, or if anyone would be interested in it at all, especially not a guy like George. But he read it – and when he’d finished it, “I have to meet you”. We agreed to share a coffee at The Gumboot.

“I love it!” he gushed. I was flabbergasted. What? He loves it?  And then he looked at me directly in the eyes and said: “I don’t think you realize how good this is. It’s very, very good.”

So that was a rush of dopamine!

And it was my start with A THEORY OF EXPANDED LOVE. My start, my beginning – with this story – to connect with readers through the finished work. George Payerle is not with us anymore, and neither is Deborah Hining or Gord Smedley, but these readers – these generous-hearted beings gave me early feedback that I will never forget.

Customer ReviewCarole Harmon5.0 out of 5 stars Kennedy Girl hits all the high points of idealistic, troubled and iconoclastic 1968.

Reviewed in Canada on July 15, 2023

I read Kennedy Girl in June 2023 along with it’s precursor, A Theory of Expanded Love. My work suffered, the laundry languished as I devoured these wonderful books.

The two novels follow the transformation of Annie Shea from a gawky twelve year old, desperate to make her mark as # 6 in a Catholic family of thirteen children (fourteen by the novel’s end), into an unstoppable seventeen year old as Kennedy Girl, the sequel of A Theory of Expanded Love, opens in Pasadena California in 1968.

Kennedy Girl
1968. What a year to be seventeen. Hair is opening on Broadway. Bobby Kennedy is campaigning to run for President on a social reform platform. The assassinations of JFK and Martin Luther King have unsettled America’s self image for many people, including Annie Shea.

Annie is cast in a musical revue of songs from Hair, directed by lecherous Father Sullivan and starring Lucas, a charismatic black dancer from a Catholic School in Watts. Annie’s older sister, the rebellious Madcap, is dating a Jew against her parents wishes. Annie’s older brothers are enlisting to fight in Vietnam with the enthusiastic support of their father, a former Commander in the US Navy. What can go wrong when Annie sneaks out of the house to join Madcap and Lucas in working on Bobby Kennedy’s campaign?

Kennedy Girl hits all the high points of that idealistic, troubled and iconoclastic year. Feminism, abuse of power, assassination, racism, war, loyalty and duty—these themes effortlessly unfold in this believable multi-layered narrative.

Caitlin Hicks has come to these novels following a distinguished career as a Canadian playwright, performer, and screen-writer. She has toured internationally in one woman monologue productions. This lived experience as a performer of what she writes has guided the dialogue, diary entries, and self-examination of Annie as she navigates the transition from teen to young woman, from the structured safety of home to the wider world.

I loved both books, I hope you will too.

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Product Details Kennedy Girl byCaitlin Hicks 5.0 out of 5 stars5 out of 52 global ratings 5 star 100% See All Buying Options

Bragging anniversaries

counted up: ten years? Twenty years?

repeat

Another ordinary day when someone was born

and close by that annoying song everyone chants in unison

with candles lighting up their smiling faces,

the burning single fire

perched atop seven minute frosting

lit for ceremony

da da da da, dear so and so,

da da da daaa to you

Before you can count them

another chalks itself up

 

Now May evaporates

with the stillness of birdsound missing

The buzzing of sharp machines fill the void

Compared to two years ago, before the fire

they used to swarm

I used to panic and smash the huge ants

dragging around a black segment full of yellow pudding

There was always a hot day in May

when they descended, their wings shorn,

looking for the cool wet wood

to lay their eggs

but now

Insects are so few they’re now individuals

I can count the bees on the buds

The plants arching up straight towards May sunshine

the ducks already spent with flapping and quacking

embarrassment gestures after he mounts her

now she perches somewhere

staring into the bushes

a sitting duck

her eggs under her

she’s still fertile she still has it

Imagine

wanting

the bleeding

the cramping

the destiny

Now the day

the May

slips through the stillness of morning sun

 

 

 

 

Imagine

All the undone things

The yearning

Ambivalence

The bluntness that now cannot be prevented
It roars

Andrew. In that mysterious limbo of intensive care, the blood sepsis, the pneumonia. The losses. Of ability to move, to stand, to raise an arm, to flick a mosquito off a leg, to turn down the television, to control the inevitable drooling. To manage his own bowels. Intubated. Breathing with ‘assistance’. Unable to speak.

With eyes that see through everything we might think is in the room, Andrew sees beyond.

Yesterday, Peter said
He was entirely present, aware, trying to speak, no doubt about it.
He grabbed my hand and rubbed my hand on his face.

Timothy said
One of his legs was slowly inching towards the edge of the bed. He couldn’t stop that leg from falling over the edge and he couldn’t move the other one. He couldn’t turn over; he couldn’t tell anyone. Anything.

His conscious being arrived in this condition, a full stop. The palsy, the speech aphasia and then, he fell over. Now tethered to hospital cords, needles, bottles and tubes, Andrew can only say ‘hello’ when he chokes on his own spit.

He’s tumbled
through
a gaping, splintering crack

Full brain radiation when he was 18

And now the jig is up, and Andrew has to pay the piper
For the consensus medicine they blasted him with
Now, after a lifetime of increasing palsy
Weakness, personality disorders
He’s somehow still alive
Or, his heart beats, and he’s conscious in his way
What way?
We have to imagine!
He can hear, he can feel, he can see,
One way
Inside-Out

no heavenHe just has
to be
in his body
In the present moment, shackled
to bleeping technology
and administering nurses who
won’t help him to the toilet
who instead, will clean the diapers afterwards
when they can fit him inHe is our brother, So
We are cell mates, roped together
By his own words, uttered when he could still speak
Do everything possible
He is reported to have said
To his ex, who holds the keysAnd belief. The belief that his personal suffering has any meaning.That God intended it.
The repeated, the familiar God’s will
The assumption
That Andrew is part of a holy plan
Pray for him, as a solution to everything
Just wait, it will be revealed
in God’s time
When He closes a door, a window opens
It’s a Mystery
Heaven beckons

We are grasping for meaning like we have never grasped; anything to absolve us of the horror of  his what? reality. The depth, the hole of his must-be loneliness.  The care center where he is being held, where he lives days of hours in the town where he grew up. The hospital where our mother died? He’s in that place now.

above us

Myself, I lived in another country for most of Andrew’s life, so I could only wonder what he did to earn that? One of my sisters knows all the details, but I don’t need to listen to them because no one deserves this. I helped him learn to walk, decades ago, when he was a baby. I too, changed his diaper. Then, his heart was strong; he had thumping room for hope.

Even angry, entitled, even maybe? what? Even Visions of grandeur. Impractical. A musician. A grease monkey, he worked on cars. He wrote and sang songs that leaned on cliches, but it was never enough to elicit approval from any of his brothers.He wasn’t always kind. But stubborn! And that’s not really a fault, is it? It’s a necessary fucking rebellion. Imagine a donkey, the definition. You have to see that rope around his neck, or in his jaw. And someone is pulling on it, against all the forces the ‘stubborn’ creature can muster. The donkey knows how captive, how slave, how no agency he is/he has. Except to resist. To demonstrate his will, contrary to those who imprison him. He used to say if you were a Hicks, you had the gene: The anxious-to-act in-an-advisory-capacity gene.

For each one of us, his six sisters and the six brothers still alive, there is so much distance between our living and his existing. Who can visit him? Between his thousands of hours alone?

A few have traveled the hundreds of miles. Held his hands, talked to him. Wheeled him into the garden to witness the spring. Connected through a glance, a stare, the squeeze of his hand. Sometimes, a speech, because that’s all you can say when it’s a one-way conversation.

And by the way, he owns nothing. Anything that was his when he arrived in the ‘Care Center’ has been sold. Or stolen. Everything we’ve sent him,

Whatever

When this was true, when an email was all we had:

Andrew is no longer septic, he still has pneumonia, he is still on a ventilator. His numbers have improved but although he opened his eyes and blinks occasionally, he is unresponsive. He does not follow movement with his eyes, he does not respond to touch or sound.

Yesterday at the passport office, “Why do you need this so soon?”

only sky

Lit Brunch with Writer’s Radio

A live literary conversation exploring a theme in the company of writers, creatives, & readers. The inaugural event, scheduled for Saturday May 4th 2024, explores the following theme around a light brunch at the west coast gardens and studios of Writers Radio in Halfmoon Bay. Readings and animated discussion with audience participation will be recorded live for later broadcast.

The child I was: would she know me now? This question will be explored through the works of two very different Sunshine Coast authors with books published in 2023: Caitlin Hicks, (A Theory of Expanded Love and Kennedy Girl -historical fiction) and Liz Long, (Navigating Shitstorms: How to Find Your True Path When Life Gets Rough-memoir/self help guide). The bruncheon, moderated by artist /filmmaker Gordon Halloran, will also Feature Gary Sill, with improvisational piano between the author readings.  Coffee, croissant, quiche and fruit hosted by Ingrid Rose and Carole Harmon.

Admission of $30 includes a light brunch, readings, discussion and live music. Advance tickets with limited seating EVENTBRITE. Personalized and signed books and CD’s will be available for sale after the event.

Writers Radio is an internet radio program and podcast series produced by Carole Harmon and Gary Sill of Halfmoon Bay and Ingrid Rose of Vancouver. It presents readings and discussions with talented people, an audio space where the inner world meets the outer.

 

More information:

Carole Harmon / 604-561-8647 / radioteam@writersradio

 

 

Before we knew he was lost to us.

One day Andrew fell over. He just couldn’t hold himself up. There was a time in the recent past year when he lived in a wheelchair in a rehab center.  His ex-wife had Power of Attorney. No one seemed to know what he ‘has’.

From my home, it would take at least 19 hours and 24 minutes to drive to Andrew, not counting the ferry or an overnight stay or a coffee, or delays at the border. Instead, I dial the switchboard at the Nurses Station. Usually, the receptionist is friendly.  I tell her my name.

“I’m calling from Canada trying to reach my brother, Andrew.” And before she can patch me into his room, I quickly add: “He’s locked in; he can’t speak, he can’t walk; I don’t think he can even hold the phone. Can you help me reach someone who can hand him the phone?” She reassures me she will page his nurse. Sometimes when I call, it’s too close to lunch, or he’s already in rehab.

The first time I reached him this way, I could feel it over the lines: he was glad to hear from me. He mumbled a greeting, which I understood! He knew it was me. I told him I just called to say ‘I love you.’ And I’m sure he said “I love you” too. Then, after a few minutes of him mumbling, and me cheerleading ‘you’ve got to try hard in rehab’ ‘you’ve got to get strong’, somehow, I understood him say that he was cold. I called back and asked the receptionist if she could make sure he got one of those magic blankets that they put in the dryer. She promised.

I was thankful when another one of my sisters drove up from Southern California to visit Andrew, a distance of 302 kilometres, or the plus side of three hours. I heard that she told Andrew she is the only family member who loves him enough to visit him in person. But that’s not true, is it? My problem is: I live in Canada, and they won’t let us cross the border. Last Christmas I sent him a package of thick socks, a scarf and a hat to keep him warm; I don’t even know if he got it. Apparently, stealing is de rigeur there. He lost two cell phones this way.

The last time I called, when the nurse put the room phone up to his ear, Andrew shook his head, ending our conversation. Maybe he doesn’t remember me anymore. Maybe he’s embarrassed. Maybe he believes that no one cares for him. It’s hard to know.

I have a friend who sings. And she used to tell me about her brother who was ‘locked in’ with ALS. She would visit him where he lay in bed and she would sing to him.  She opened her mouth and let her love out in the form of a song. They would look deeply into each other’s eyes because that’s all they could do.

We don’t know how long Andrew has. Or how long anyone has!  This photo is from months ago, when he could still sit up.

We do know

that our brother, Andrew declined to the point that he could only live in a bed, tethered and tubed. He couldn’t communicate, or swallow, or hold the phone.  Or eat in a normal way. One of my sisters got a picture of him holding her hand. By then, that’s all he could do, squeeze. His mouth was gaping open to accommodate the tube in his throat. The image sent a shock through me. She said, sometimes his eyes moved to follow her. Sometimes during her sporadic visits, he held onto her hand like he would never let go. I was so grateful that she was there, squeezing his hand.

Then he was isolated with another bout of COVID, in spite of being ‘fully vaccinated’ and boostered. He was transferred to a hospital when he got pneumonia again. I was still locked out, forbidden to travel. I tried to arrange for him to get a massage on his feet, every so often, because a foot massage can feel so good.

I’m leaving a lot of time out. A lot of emails out. There were so many conditions he endured in this state.  Alone in the hospital, being administered to. Or not. One day,  an email from his ex-wife:  the hospital was saying that Andrew’s heart was failing. Again, inexplicably.

I got the email, knowing Andrew was still alive, it was still the present, when we both inhaled and exhaled, sentient beings on a beautiful planet.

A few moments later,  he had moved onto another realm. With a broken heart.

Where were we all? Such a big family, and no one at his side.

-I wrote a furious hybrid piece of writing about this, called IMAGINE ANDREW.

Before we knew he was lost to us.

One day Andrew fell over. He just couldn’t hold himself up. Now he lives in a wheelchair in a rehab center and his ex-wife has Power of Attorney. No one seems to know what he ‘has’.

From my home, it would take at least 19 hours and 24 minutes to drive to Andrew, not counting the ferry or an overnight stay or a coffee, or delays at the border. Instead, I dial the switchboard at the Nurses Station. Usually, the receptionist is friendly.  I tell her my name.

“I’m calling from Canada trying to reach my brother, Andrew.” And before she can patch me into his room, I quickly add: “He’s locked in; he can’t speak, he can’t walk; I don’t think he can even hold the phone. Can you help me reach someone who can hand him the phone?” She reassures me she will page his nurse. Sometimes when I call, it’s too close to lunch, or he’s already in rehab.

The first time I reached him this way, I could feel it over the lines: he was glad to hear from me. He mumbled a greeting, which I understood! He knew it was me. I told him I just called to say ‘I love you.’ And I’m sure he said “I love you” too. Then, after a few minutes of him mumbling, and me cheerleading ‘you’ve got to try hard in rehab’ ‘you’ve got to get strong’, somehow, I understood him say that he was cold. I called back and asked the receptionist if she could make sure he got one of those magic blankets that they put in the dryer. She promised.

I was thankful when another one of my sisters drove up from Southern California to visit Andrew, a distance of 302 kilometres, or the plus side of three hours. I heard that she told Andrew she is the only family member who loves him enough to visit him in person. But that’s not true, is it? My problem is: I live in Canada, and they won’t let us cross the border. Last Christmas I sent him a package of thick socks, a scarf and a hat to keep him warm; I don’t even know if he got it. Apparently, stealing is de rigeur there. He lost two cell phones this way.

The last time I called, when the nurse put the room phone up to his ear, Andrew shook his head, ending our conversation. Maybe he doesn’t remember me anymore. Maybe he’s embarrassed. Maybe he believes that no one cares for him. It’s hard to know.

I have a friend who sings. And she used to tell me about her brother who was ‘locked in’ with ALS. She would visit him where he lay in bed and she would sing to him.  She opened her mouth and let her love out in the form of a song. They would look deeply into each other’s eyes because that’s all they could do.

We don’t know how long Andrew has. Or how long I have! But I have to tell you a significant factor in the wonder of that question:  I belong to a group I never joined. We are the Unwashed. The Lepers. Those who Resist. They have a name for us. In case no one can find a scapegoat, they point to us.

What we do know

I know I am surrounded. I understand: these are words that cannot be said.

People in this group refuse to do things like injecting themselves with an experimental substance that has killed thousands, and has seriously injured hundreds of thousands. We refuse to pull the trigger on a gun that sometimes has a bullet in the chamber, and other times, just makes a harmless clicking sound.

I know I am being punished for my disobedience. It’s familiar, that I am being made an example of. Just like when, as a child, I dared to speak what I knew was forbidden.

Then, I understood that I would get a spanking if I said another word. Or the belt on my bare bottom. All watched in silence, just like now. And, Daddy had that belt in his hand. Whenever he had that belt in his hand, we all shut up.

If nothing else, it was Daddy’s message: we needed to take heed. He set the laws of the land.

So I get it, that I’m forbidden to cross that border to reach my brother, unless I harm myself.

My brother Andrew, whom I helped to learn to walk as a baby, who now lives in a wheelchair. Who can’t communicate, can’t hold the phone when I call, who struggles to take a step, who has been isolated with another bout of COVID, in spite of being ‘fully vaccinated’ and boostered. Andrew, he’s locked in.

And I’m locked out.