Tell me more Stories about the 12 hardest things I'm learning to say

Review by New York Times Review

the man who made the movies By Vanda Krefft. (Harper, $40.) Krefft has written the first major biography of William Fox, the movie mogul whose life story is the archetypical rags-toriches tale - a boy who worked in a sweatshop on the Lower East Side eventually creates an entertainment empire, phone By Will Self. (Grove Press, $27.) The final novel in Self's massive Umbrella Trilogy exploring technology and psychopathology, this book is set in London and Iraq and tells the story of two men, a psychiatrist losing his own mind and a mysterious MI-6 agent. MY TWENTIETH CENTURY EVENING AND OTHER SMALL BREAKTHROUGHS: THE NOBEL lecture By Kazuo fshiguro. (Knopf, $16.95.) This is the lecture that the most recent Nobel laureate gave in Sweden in early December, looking at his own evolution as a writer and his thoughts on what a new generation of authors must do to keep literature relevant to our lives, in days to come By Avraham Burg. (Nation Books, $28.) The former speaker of Israel's Knesset gives his own take on his country's history and the quagmire it now finds itself in as Zionism and Jewish identity evolve to meet the new realities of the 21st century, tell me more By Kelly Corrigan. (Random House, $26.) Corrigan unpacks 12 essential phrases, from "I don't know" to "I love you," that, as she puts it, "turn the wheel of life." & Noteworthy "The last time I read personal history by Katharine Graham was in 2015, after almost nine years of working for The Washington Post, her newspaper. What struck me most then, though, was her description of her young adulthood in the nation's capital, and the 'legions of young men in Washington who grouped together to live in houses.' Katharine Meyer and Philip L. Graham met at a group-house party in D.C.! I had suffered through so many myself, and mostly what I got were in-person recitations of funny things people had said on Twitter. I'm reading her book for a third time now, after being predictably charmed by the new movie 'The Post.' It is remarkable to watch Meryl Streep, as Graham, decide to publish the Pentagon Papers, then read that decision rendered in Graham's own words. By the time you reach that point in the book, she has talked candidly about pregnancy loss, personal friendships with several presidents, her husband's suicide - and the way she made history in a job she was never really expected to have. Maybe that would have been too long a movie, but it's worth treating yourself to the source material." RACHEL DRY, EDITOR OF SUNDAY REVIEW, ON WHAT SHE'S READING.

Copyright (c) The New York Times Company [August 30, 2019]

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Review by Booklist Review

Could it be that the simplest phrases sometimes hold the most complexity? In her fourth book, Corrigan (Glitter and Glue, 2014) explores this assertion in 12 essays, each of which is named for a phrase that has proven itself to be essential. While some phrases are expected (I Love You), others are more of a surprise; Tell Me More follows Corrigan as she learns new ways to listen, while No Words at All considers the times when language fails us. Corrigan's family and friends play a central role in the essays; readers of her memoir The Middle Place (2008) will immediately recognize Greenie, the much-loved father she lost to cancer. Though humor is an essential part of her voice, Corrigan is at her best when she tempers her self-deprecation with weightier topics. Onward, especially, shows her ability to mix the mundane and the momentous; in a letter to a dear friend who has died, Corrigan recounts how they've all tried to move on not with grand actions or resolutions but with the small, daily triumphs and struggles that define life itself.--Winterroth, Amanda Copyright 2018 Booklist

From Booklist, Copyright (c) American Library Association. Used with permission.

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Review by Publisher's Weekly Review

In this brisk and moving memoir, Corrigan (The Middle Place) explores the language and terrain of intimacy, delving into some of the most difficult and significant things people say to one another. In 12 brief essays, Corrigan describes the ways in which phrases such as "tell me more" and "I know" have shaped her closest relationships. In the title essay, Corrigan slowly raises the stakes, with masterly results (when her sixth-grade daughter calls to talk of an incident in school, Corrigan simply says, "Tell me about it," rather than something more accusative, and her daughter divulges everything). She also contemplates the many meanings of "I love you" (to a sibling, it could be "Even though we hardly agree about a thing, including who should be president... I love you") and writes about how the phrase "I know" offers the salve of empathy when no other words will do. At the heart of the memoir is Corrigan's examination of her friendship with Liz, who died from ovarian cancer. "Every important conversation I have, for the rest of my life, will have a little bit to do with her," Corrigan writes. At one point, she considers the truth that sometimes only silence can properly evoke. The essays are impactful, and Corrigan offers solid wisdom throughout. (Jan. 2018) © Copyright PWxyz, LLC. All rights reserved.

(c) Copyright PWxyz, LLC. All rights reserved

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Review by Library Journal Review

Best seller Corrigan (Middle Place) asserts in her latest work that there are 12 hard statements that everyone needs to say more. She presents them via stories from her life, resulting in a book that is part memoir and part self-improvement. By using personal, sometimes intimate stories she instantly builds a bond with listeners and demonstrates exactly when and how to incorporate these statements into daily life. From the title essay to "I Was Wrong" and "No," through saying nothing at all, which for many will be the hardest, listeners will be inspired to look at their own lives and replicate these powerful declarations. Listeners will enjoy the personality Corrigan brings through her warm and welcoming narration. VERDICT Recommended for libraries where lighter self-improvement and parenting books are popular. ["A user's manual to tough conversations": Memoir 10/20/17 review of the Random hc.]-Donna Bachowski, Orange Cty. Lib. Syst., Orlando, FL © Copyright 2018. Library Journals LLC, a wholly owned subsidiary of Media Source, Inc. No redistribution permitted.

(c) Copyright Library Journals LLC, a wholly owned subsidiary of Media Source, Inc. No redistribution permitted.

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Review by Kirkus Book Review

Ruminations about the power of 12 of life's essential phrases and the difficulty in learning to say them out loud.Corrigan (Glitter and Glue, 2013, etc.) may be a bestselling author, but she doesn't always know the right thing to say, especially when it comes to the ones she loves most. In the collection's titular essay, the author struggles to communicate with her teenage daughter until a childhood friend encourages her to do less talking and more listening, a strategy she implements when her father is diagnosed with terminal cancer. In "I Know," Corrigan's experience volunteering at a camp for children who have lost someone to cancer reminds her how comforting physical companyrather than apologycan be during times of tragedy and loss. "I Was Wrong," the funniest entry in the collection, uses a dog, an unflushed toilet, and a parental meltdown to highlight the power and near-impossible difficulty of admitting personal fault. In the deeply affecting entry "Onward," moving on from tragedy takes on a new weight. With heartfelt humor and penetrating insight, Corrigan uses the pain, anguish, failure, and occasional successes in her life to explore the vital connection between the words we say and the relationships we develop, both with the people around us and ourselves. Punctuated with her signature warmth and unflinching honesty, her introspective musings gush with empathy for every partner, parent, child, or friend who has said the wrong thing at the wrong time. At times laugh-out-loud funny but overwhelmingly bittersweet, this brief book spans time and experience to drive home a seemingly simple but significant message: finding the right words is a lifelong journey. Other phrases include "I Love You" and "No Words at All."Moving and deeply personal, Corrigan's portraits of love and loss urge readers to speak more carefully and hold on tighter to the people they love. Copyright Kirkus Reviews, used with permission.

Copyright (c) Kirkus Reviews, used with permission.

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It's Like This There was no real reason for it to fall apart that morning. And, in fact, it didn't. I did. I could say it was because my dad--­whom I adored to the point of absurdity--­had died sixty-­eight days before. I could say that watching him shrink into silence did me in, that grief bled me dry, that I was no longer a match for ordinary family life, that my radio station had lost the signal, the drone of static broken only by the occasional reception of two clear thoughts: He's gone and Please give him back. But the truth is that I'm always teetering between a mature acceptance of life's immutables and a childish railing against the very same. In the time it takes to get the mail, I can slide from sanguine and full of purpose to pissed off and fuming. As for perspective, there's a Hertz customer service rep in Des Moines who could release a tape of my recent "feedback" that would make the Internet break. All of which is not to say that I can't spot the difference between trivial and tragic. I can. I do. I genuflect in gratitude for my health, my husband, my kids, my central heating. I just can't stay bowed down. I keep popping back up, saying things like, Does anyone else's back hurt? In those moments, I'm not that much closer to maintaining an adult frame of reference than I was the day I got my first period. Speaking of menstruation, lack of perspective, and fits of irrationality, I have two teenage daughters. Georgia is sixteen, with Vidal Sassoon hair, almond-­brown eyes, flat feet, and one killer dimple. She likes lacrosse and Snapchat and prefers precalculus and chemistry to the humanities, where there are too many possible answers. Her interest in me hinges on allowance and rides; offering more, like an opinion, visibly chafes her. Her independence tortures and impresses me. She is a world-­class procrastinator who brushes her wet hair in the car on the way to the party and waits until we pull up to practice to put on her cleats. She is cool on a dance floor and sometimes, when she's telling me a story, I am as captivated by her as I have ever been by another human being. Claire is fourteen, has blond hair that turns brown in the winter, size 12 shoes, dark blue eyes she gets from her father, and a smile that can be seen from space. She plays volleyball and basketball because we make her, lacrosse because she likes being outside in the spring. Without our interference, her extracurricular hours would be dedicated to the lyrics of Lin-­Manuel Miranda, decorating baked goods with special nozzles she found on Amazon, and throwing theme parties, six a year, pegged to the holidays. She designs her own invitations, finds snack and décor ideas on BuzzFeed, and plugs in a $14 disco light to energize the dance floor that is our deck. In fifth grade, she got every single answer right on a standardized test that was given over four days, but that doesn't mean she can spell "skedule" or "arguement." We like to think she might be some sort of creative genius, but anything is possible. When they're together, the girls are either watching reruns of The Office, ignoring each other in favor of whatever's on their cellphone, or squabbling over how to say Wingardium Leviosa. Sometimes, the way they go back and forth reminds me of the way Edward and I bicker, and I feel sure that if only we had modeled bipartisanship, our children would be better and happier. Once or twice a year, they do a Bollywood routine they learned from Just Dance and I'm reminded of the days when being at home with each other was enough. When they do the Garth & Kat skit from Saturday Night Live, I dare to believe I can see the faint edges of a future friendship. That leaves Edward, my husband. Growing up, he was told he looked like Robby Benson of Ice Castles. Now he gets Ben Stiller. His obsessions are swimming, having the proper gear for any occasion, ensuring that each person he comes in contact with has seen and fully appreciated all five seasons of The Wire, and the Golden State Warriors. He fanboys their impetuous power forward, Draymond Green, whom he calls Sack Tapper after Green kicked several players in the nuts during the 2016 playoffs. Other than taking upward of ten days to unpack a suitcase and nagging me about going to the dentist, Edward is fairly easy to live with. He is not afraid of the grocery store or the stove and helps me color the very back of my hair, painting my gray roots Medium Brown 5 with the mini plastic brush that comes with the kit. He is deeply rational, has work that matters to him, and almost always holds my hand as we fall asleep even though he doesn't really like holding hands. Me, I'm all over the place. I look like my dad, and like both the girls in different ways. My hair is naturally curly but not in the sexy beachy way. If I were a dog, I'd be the kind that's easier to shave down than to groom. I have been told I have large teeth. I'm soft, and getting softer, and my ass is less pumpkin than helipad. To pretend I care enough to fix these things, I exercise every Saturday morning with Edward. I slow down when my forehead starts to shine--­I'm not a huge fan of showers. I wear the same clothes all week and often get past noon before putting on a bra or looking in the mirror. I prefer projects to jobs. I've built "furniture," been a "photographer," and started a "company." I am riddled with ideas, a dozen a day. My ambition waxes when I drink alcohol--­one skinny margarita can have me filing to run for state senate--­and wanes in the morning after the kids leave and I am alone with the work. The one absolutely good thing I do is volunteer for our local children's hospital. Every Tuesday, from three p.m. to five p.m., I hold babies in the NICU. That's me, that's us. So, this one morning . . . I'd slept okay. The usual five a.m. stumble to the loo, and back to the sack for another couple hours in bed until, like curtains snapping open, I am awake. There's bacon cooking--­I can smell it--­which puts Edward in the kitchen attending to his clockwork need for breakfast meats. I sit up, set my glasses on my nose to read the slight curve of my slippers. Left on left. Right on right. Another day begins. After I quiet my white-­noise machine, the first sound I hear is a bit of edgy back-­and-­forth between the girls. Someone is wearing someone else's shirt. Without asking. Bickering bothers me much more than it bothers Edward. Edward can tolerate it all day, coming and going, while I launch into action at the first whiff. If smoke always leads to fire, the reasonable mind begs to know, why not douse the kindling before the place burns to the ground? Here's why: Edward read a parenting book (just one) and the book said "Let 'em fight!" As for the shirt, a $9 Circo crewneck from Target, it was purchased for Georgia. But last week, when I noticed it in her dresser, overflowing with options she hasn't considered since she committed full-­time to black leggings and a gray hoodie, I thought, Gee, I bet I could get Claire to wear this. I didn't think Claire would like it. I thought I could get her to wear it, so it wouldn't go unused. I need things to be used--­the heel of the bread, the last page of the notebook, the rug from college. Our car has 148,412 miles on it. So yeah, I gave Georgia's shirt to Claire. I did not ask permission. While the shirt thing is going down in the hall, my daughters' voices rising, the phone rings, which suggests, as it does in households across the world, that someone should answer it. But here at Crest Road, the ringing is a dog whistle and I'm the only canine. "Edward! The phone!" He can't hear me, what with the crackling bacon, the exhaust fan it necessitates, and the squabble in the hallway. I hustle to grab the upstairs phone, only to hear "Hi! This is Joan from the Breast Cancer Awareness Fund, calling to talk to you about our Fun Run and Handbag Swap." Oh no, Recording "Joan." No, you don't. I've had breast cancer. Chemo, surgery, radiation, the whole Party Pak. I gave. Click. Meanwhile, the girls are really getting into it. It's more than a shirt now; it's I always! and You never! and That's crazy! Then, Claire goes Real Housewives: "You don't even know how to share, you selfish bitch!" I am standing over her in seconds. "What did you just say?" Fuck Edward's book. "She--­" Claire starts to answer my rhetorical question. "Did you hear--­" Georgia says. Excerpted from Tell Me More: Stories About the 12 Hardest Things I'm Learning to Say by Kelly Corrigan All rights reserved by the original copyright owners. Excerpts are provided for display purposes only and may not be reproduced, reprinted or distributed without the written permission of the publisher.

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