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336 pages, ebook
First published May 9, 2017
The little town of Sycamore struck her as something out of a fairy tale in its smallness, in its cluster of businesses along Main Street, its small college on one side, her new high school on the other. Though it seemed to emit a gentle sigh, a sleepy breath, she thought not of sweetness but of Frankenstein: “By the glimmer of the half-extinguished light, I saw the dull yellow eye of the creature open.”The girl, missing since 1991, has been found, well, her bones anyway. Her vanishing and the subsequent impact on friends, family, and the community is the core of Bryn Chancellor’s brilliant first novel, Sycamore. Reminiscent of Olive Kitteridge, Sycamore paints a portrait of a place, looks at the people who make up the town, and leads us through the mystery of what happened when seventeen-year-old Jess Winters went missing. The narrative skips back and forth between the now of 2009 and the then of 1991, when Jess vanished.

As Laura watched the Padres lose to the Giants again and picked at the dirt under her fingernails, it dawned on her that she and her parents were on a parallel path. All starting over. Except, of course, her parents’ do-over was part of a long-held plan—their fortieth anniversary was in two months. Hers was an attempt at an entire split from the past. Burn the whole fucking thing down and see if she could rise from the ashes.But Sycamore is not just a haven for the begin-agains, a Do-Over-stan spa in the desert, drawing the damaged. There are locals, generations deep, coping with their own dreams and disappointments, not necessarily in that order. Iris Overton, owner of Overton Orchards, is coping with the recent passing of her husband. Stevie Prentiss is helping run the family business instead of taking the art scholarship she so deserved, thanks to the passing of her father. Adam Newell, son of a famous artist mother, never quite had her talent, and is making a living selling real-estate instead of continuing what everyone had expected would be his family business, creating works for display at major museums, and coming up first on google searches. Esther Genoways is a caring, inspirational teacher, who finds herself alone again after her bff, a gay man, has moved west to marry a man he’d met on-line. The place could probably support an AA equivalent. I can relate, or at least I could once. “Hi. My name’s Will, and I’m starting over.” “Hi, Will.” If this is beginning to sound like a lonely hearts club, I apologize. Sycamore is so much more than that. I mean, would you take a pass on, say Anna Karenina, because it’s too sad? Speaking of Tolstoy, he famously wrote, in that very book, “All happy families are alike: each unhappy family is unhappy in its own way.“ There is diversity in how the people of Sycamore face their challenges.
…stories always come to me first through that seemingly small scope of the everyday. There’s an assumption, even in the language itself—ordinary vs. extraordinary—that the ordinary doesn’t have the spark, that the value lies beyond, in the extra. I like to complicate that. I don’t always know that I will find something extraordinary in the ordinary, but I always believe it’s there.This finds its way into the story in a gripping Humanities class scene.
Ms. G showed slides of the work, pausing on a painting called The Floor Planers, which showed three shirtless men on their knees scraping a wooden floor. This was scandalous, Ms. G said, not because they were shirtless but because they were workers. The Salon did not value depictions of ordinary life, working life. In their view this was not the subject of art. “But look at that light,” Ms. G said, and she touched the screen, tracing the shine on the floors, and on the men’s muscled backs. “Shivers!” she said, holding up her arm, and Jess got them, too. “The beautiful in the ordinary,” Ms. G said, and Jess wrote it down.The small is in the status of her characters, regular folks, for the most part, and, beautifully, in her depiction of the landscape.
I grew up in northern Arizona, in a small town turned famous town: Sedona. There, with no transit save for the tourist trolley and parents who worked full time, I walked everywhere. To and from the school bus stop… walked at a slow, rock-kicking pace, cursing people for not giving me rides…I learned that I had to flee this beautiful place, my home, before it swallowed me whole. - from the story prize blogspot interviewChancellor may have fled her hometown, but her characters report on it’s harsh, majestic beauty. There are places like the erstwhile lake that vanished into a sinkhole one day, and seems eager to drag a bit more of the world, living and not, into its maw, (and, given the quote above, it would not seem too much a stretch to see the sinkhole that ate
She’d stood on a balcony naked and watched the sunrise while her new husband slept. Watching the shimmering expanse of the Gulf, she’d thought, There’s the whole wide world, and she stretched to her tiptoes, reaching for it.But have a care when you reach for the world. You never know what might reach back.
She walked in a land of strangers instead of in the land of her parents, her older brother and nephews, her colleagues and friends. her husband of eleven years. She walked in her alien landscape, in her ridiculous visor, and she told herself: Buck up, Drennan, you chicken shit. This ain’t summer camp.There was one particular reference in the book that blew me away, a few lines in the humanities class, from a poem by Edna St Vincent Milay. The poignancy is gut-wrenching, suspecting what we suspect, knowing what we know. And not just for it’s significance for a seventeen year old on the cusp of becoming. Maybe even more, it reaches my wrinkled soul, inserts claws and begins to shake. But the rain is full of ghosts tonight, that tap and sigh Upon the glass and listen for reply. I have included the poem in it’s entirety in Extra Stuff, so you can see for yourself.
I’m most drawn to works that have deeply complex, original characters in whom I’m absolutely invested. My mantra is “Come on, break my heart.” I want to feel something at the end, to go through the fire. If I’m weeping at 3 a.m. when I finally close the cover, success!She succeeds in generating that impact here. Have those hankies ready. Don’t finish this book in a public place unless you enjoy having strangers come over to ask if you are ok. This book will pull you in and keep you there until the course has been run, and you can look up once more. This desert landscape tale will leave clearly marked trails on your cheeks where salty water flowed. Chancellor’s first novel is heartfelt and powerful, human and universal. One can only hope that where Sycamore has now been planted, in the years ahead, a mighty forest of such beautiful novels will grow.