by Barbara Fischkin
Since its debut in 2013, I have been a fan of “By the Book,” a “Q and A” feature, in The New York Times Book Review. Google AI describes it as a look into “select authors’ reading habits and favorite books.” I’d always been so eager to read the text, that it was only recently I noticed the pun in the title. A word play on a phrase I had used umpteenth times to push sales, after the first of my three books was published in 1997. Duh.
Late last year one of those “select, authors did a slight stumble over the often-posed question about who to invite to a literary dinner party. He said he had been reading the feature for years—which I took as a big hint that he had long hoped to be a subject one day. I don’t know any writers who wouldn’t jump at the chance, myself included.
For me, one major problem: My last book was published in 2006, seven years before this feature appeared. Like many writers, my heart and soul are joyous about my successes yet tainted with bitterness and blame. In regard to my lack of a fourth book, I blame the editor—and supposed friend—who refused to acquire an in-depth look at the children of the autism surge growing into adulthood, as was my elder son. A similar tome, written by Washington insiders, was a Pulitzer prize finalist. With a little less bite, I blame the handful of non-writers with great stories, who chickened out when it came to partnering with me to write their books. To be fair they did this after editing, book proposals and early chapters were written—and after they paid me for my work. But when it came to publicly telling their stories, they got cold feet.
Most of all, though, I blame my current obscurity on myself and on a manuscript-creature titled The Digger Resistance. My yet unborn historical novel.
“Digger,” as I call it, is a wide-ranging saga I have been writing in one form or another since the turn of this century. The plot springs from many real-life events. Yet in its specificity it is entirely concocted by me, leading me to share the blame, the shame and my unmet craving for a “By the Book,” feature.
In more detail, Digger is an autism-related novel driven by three mothers of mute sons—from different eras and places. One of the sons, the eponymous Digger, connects to all characters, as the plot unfolds. Digger tells his share of the tale by communicating with readers through interior monologues. The narrative moves from a Ukrainian shtetl to the home of a child of a Nazi SS officer and then to a Long Island Beach town, spanning the years 1910-the present. The manuscript finally does have the shape I had been seeking for decades—thanks in large part to another writer with whom I barter editing. It is still months, if not more, before it will go to my first line of readers and before I look for a new agent.
Yes, it is complicated. But more complicated books have been written more quickly. Right now, I only ask for a suspension of disbelief as, below, I imagine what it would be like to be the subject of a “By the Book,” feature.
By the Book
Barbara Fischkin
What books are on your night stand?
Unlike some subjects of this feature, I actually do have a night stand. I don’t know how any writer manages without one. If you are successful enough to be interviewed here and do not have such a minor but crucial piece of furniture, please march out and buy one immediately. No more of the “my books are scattered in piles beside my bed (or mattress on the floor) and all over my home.” Unless you are writing from a trailer park.
My night stand is an unusual wicker-like one with long, narrow logs of wood, purchased circa 1990 when we lived in Hong Kong. As was the custom then, it was de-bugged (from real bugs not electronic ones) upon delivery. But not since. I don’t think Hong Kong bugs like long cargo rides to New York. Atop this night table, in the style of Steve Martin when he was asked the same question here, are hundreds of books inside my paperwhite Kindle. It is kinder to my aging eyes than real paper. Also our family lost about 1,500 books in Hurricane Sandy, many we consider irreplaceable.
On my birthday in November I did receive a gift of real books, from a millennial who packaged up new copies of the best he’d read in 2025. For me, it was a much-needed peek inside the minds of younger serious readers. The books are Martyr! by Kaveh Akbar (I am up to page 103 and entranced). Palaver by Bryan Washington and Rejection by Tony Tulathimutte.
On the Kindle, my own favorite readings last year—although not necessarily published in 2025—are Intermezzo, by Sally Rooney (her best so far), The Postcard By Anne Berest and All the Light We Cannot See by Anthony Doerr. I was late to the game with the last two. It was suggested I read them because they take leaps in time, as does Digger. And, yes, I am an eclectic reader.
Describe your ideal place to read?
“Places,” is more like it. In bed, by the presumably debugged night table with the Kindle on, while my husband is reading his own Kindle or asleep. At the beach, as close to the waves breaking on shore as possible. And, as a woman of extremes, listening on Audible while driving—but only going to places where I know the way without the help of GPS.
Have you ever gotten in trouble for reading a book?
Yes. My parents had their fair share of books arranged neatly on shelves in their Brooklyn, New York home. Included among these books were the complete faux-leather-bound works of Charles Dickens and far too many Reader’s Digest Condensed Books. To my surprise, around the age of ten, I spotted a lone book suspiciously hidden on the top rack of the coat closet in our Brooklyn kitchen. It was a book on how to parent a difficult child. (Moi?). I don’t remember the exact title or the author. It may have had a red, white and blue cover. Hopefully it is out of print, dated in its advice and was not written by the scourge of autism families Bruno Bettelheim. Or worse, Sigmond Freud.
When I found this book my mother was out, visiting a chatty neighbor. I grabbed a stepstool, took the book down and began to pour over it, trying to figure out if it had been purchased to help my mother deal with me, or with my only sibling, a dear brother 12-years older and by then a young lawyer. My mother had often told me that my brother Ted, now deceased, had been a difficult child. (She seemed to forget this once he became the editor of the New York University Law Review and then passed the bar.)
But on the day I found the book, Ted had not been a child for years and it was still hidden in the coat closet. I don’t think I read a lot of it. What I do remember is my mother coming home, grabbing the book from my hand and telling me it was not for a child my age. It was the only time my mother, a voracious reader undeterred by the high school equivalency diploma she earned in her fifties, forbade me to read anything.
In retrospect, I remember how I watched my mother help my father hide the books he would read on the bus and subway as he commuted to work in Lower Manhattan. She often made book covers out of paper bags for those books. “Your father does not want anyone to know what he is reading,” my mother told me. This still confounds me. They were detective novels. It’s not as if they were porn. That, I would have known.
What were your favorite books as a child?
I read all of the Nancy Drew books and the Cherry Ames, student nurse books, even though I had no inclination to be a detective or a nurse. The librarian at my Hebrew school kept me fully stocked in books from the series All-of-a-Kind-Family by Sydney Taylor. I liked them a lot, although I now find the series title exclusionary and somewhat offensive. Although, looking at summaries of the books, I see they are more about immigrants than religion.
No book delighted me as much—or made me want to be a writer myself—as deeply as The Phantom Tollbooth by Norton Juster. I was delighted to hear Michael Chabon say it was his favorite childhood book, too. It was also the first book I had ever received that was signed by the author, a real author and the real author of this book. It was a ninth birthday present given to me by my first cousin Natalie Bates, who went on to become an actress, novelist and playwright. I still often think I am Milo going through that tollbooth, hoping to find out why when I am in one place I always want to be somewhere else. Then, I remember that when Milo did get somewhere else, somewhere not real but magical, it was thrilling. Places and characters built on the concept of their names. Dictionopolis. Digitopolis, the princesses Rhyme and Reason—and more..
Are there any author friends you would like to shamelessly plug?
I thought you’d never ask. And, really you never do. But since I am driving the bus here, I am going to let it fly. I am also glad you have not asked who I would invite to a literary dinner party, mostly because if I were hosting literary luminaries, alive or dead, I would rather eat out. Less stressful. As for plugs. These two do not need any but I would be remiss not to mention them: William Kennedy, my first and most enduring writing teacher and a friend—and Kevin Baker who I only met once or twice but who, by way of his books, taught me so much about writing historical fiction.
There is also a bevy of writers who are members of “Word of Mouth,” an organization of women writers formed years ago so that we could support one another. Among the founders was our fearless leader, the novelist and Literary Lion, Roxana Robinson. If I try to name all of us, I will surely leave someone out. I will try to mention as many as I can in the comments. One exception: Among that group, someone who has become a dearest friend and a supporter of me in real life—and also as I write—is the novelist Masha Hamilton. I await her next book. She is a vintage friend. Among new friends, please check out the distinguished poet Pamela Laskin. And have a look at her new Young Adult Novel written with Ellen Paige. A book about how and why a young couple, one with Down Syndrome, the other with Autism, fall in love. It will change how you view people with disabilities. The book is titled “What I Forgot To Tell You.”
What About Digger?
Too many already know too much about it (Except when I will finish it).
Sounds like a conversation starter for that dinner party.
I would only invite Toni Morrison. I met her twice. Both times in Albany, New York, where I believe she was teaching and/or a guest of William Kennedy and his now dearly departed wife Dana. The first time I met Toni was when I reviewed her play about Emmett Till Dreaming Emmett toni-morrison-dreaming-emmett-albany for Newsday. The second time was at a dinner before the premiere of the film Ironweed, the cinematic version of Kennedy’s Pulitzer-winning book. At this dinner Toni had a bit of time to chat with me. She told me she had liked my review of her play, a departure in form for her. Moving on to another topic, I told her I had just given birth to my first child and that I had read Beloved while nursing him. I told her that motherhood had made me realize I had to re-read over “everything” I had once read. Yes, hyperbole is my style. That night it was Toni’s as well. Her reply: “You also have to re-write everything you have ever written.” I would so like to finish this conversation with her, with the heavenly embodiment of Toni Morrison. But at a restaurant.