I know, it’s not summer. But November is when we need start to need an escape the most, am I right?

I heard about this World War I era historical fiction novel by Helen Simonson from a dear friend via the post, which felt completely appropriate. I immediately requested it from the library, and it did not disappoint.

It was the best kind of historical fiction. It doesn’t take itself too seriously, described the time period in a way that makes you want to look up 1915-era British fashion, and perhaps irrationally, be tempted to put a reminder on my husband’s Google calendar for 20 years from now to find a way to casually call me an “old girl,” as a term of endearment after I’ve accomplished something especially swell. Not that I’ll be old then, but enough past the bloom of youth and beauty that I’ll be able to appreciate it. I think.

The characters were delightful, and relatable. Themes of womens’ rights and roles in society, the war, and class-ism were woven through the text. The story ponders  education as advancement vs. education leaving one stranded, knowing just enough to be dissatisfied with life as one knows it, but not able to advance to a better standard of living. It was thought provoking to think about the role of women at that time and to recognize the extent to which things have and haven’t changed for women since then.

The book is well written, and deep enough that it can’t be read too quickly. The slower reading gives the reader time to chew on the story, the witty dialogue, and the interactions between the characters. The subtle humor makes you feel like you’re part of an inside joke.

In the last couple of sections, it felt like the author sped up some parts she didn’t want to bother with and conveniently connected a few loose ends in the plot an in an improbable way so she could get back to the “good stuff.” These inconsistencies came across as a minor annoyance rather than deal-breakers. I’m guessing as the author continues writing (this is her second book), she’ll get better at dealing with the obnoxious plot threads that need to be explained, but no one really wants to read or write about.

I’m reading Simonson’s first book, and while it’s a charming story, I can already see where her writing style is better developed in The Summer Before the War. It’s happened before, when I read the second book first, and when I go back to the first, the writing just isn’t as honed and I don’t end up getting into it.

World War II historical fiction has always been a favorite of mine, but I admit, I’ve done much less reading about World War I, so it was interesting to explore that period of history. After living in nonfiction land for quite a while now, these forays back into fiction are all the more enjoyable.

The background for this post is made up of my Grandmom’s handkerchiefs.