Genre Fiction
![Tiffany McDaniel - [object Object] author](https://res.cloudinary.com/readsomnia/image/upload/authors/a_B01DAN905O.jpg)
Betty: A novel
One of the Best Books of the Year: The Guardian, Glamour, Goop
An Entertainment Weekly Must-Read
A stunning, lyrical novel set in the rolling foothills of the Appalachians about a young girl and the family truths that will haunt her for the rest of her life.
"A girl comes of age against the knife."
So begins the story of Betty Carpenter. Born in a bathtub in 1954 to a white mother and a Cherokee father, Betty is the sixth of eight siblings. The world they inhabit in the rural town of Breathed, Ohio, is one of poverty and violence-both from outside the family and, devastatingly, from within. But despite the hardships she faces, Betty is resilient. Her curiosity about the natural world, her fierce love for her sisters, and her father's brilliant stories are kindling for the fire of her own imagination, and in the face of all to which she bears witness, Betty discovers an escape: she begins to write.
Inspired by generations of her family, Tiffany McDaniel sets out to free the past by delivering this heartbreaking yet magical story-a remarkable novel that establishes her as one of the most important voices in American fiction.
An Entertainment Weekly Must-Read
A stunning, lyrical novel set in the rolling foothills of the Appalachians about a young girl and the family truths that will haunt her for the rest of her life.
"A girl comes of age against the knife."
So begins the story of Betty Carpenter. Born in a bathtub in 1954 to a white mother and a Cherokee father, Betty is the sixth of eight siblings. The world they inhabit in the rural town of Breathed, Ohio, is one of poverty and violence-both from outside the family and, devastatingly, from within. But despite the hardships she faces, Betty is resilient. Her curiosity about the natural world, her fierce love for her sisters, and her father's brilliant stories are kindling for the fire of her own imagination, and in the face of all to which she bears witness, Betty discovers an escape: she begins to write.
Inspired by generations of her family, Tiffany McDaniel sets out to free the past by delivering this heartbreaking yet magical story-a remarkable novel that establishes her as one of the most important voices in American fiction.
Editorial Reviews
NAUTILUS BOOK AWARD WINNER
THE SOCIETY OF MIDLAND AUTHORS AWARD WINNER
OHIOANA LIBRARY READERS CHOICE AWARDS WINNER
FRIENDS OF AMERICAN WRITERS CHICAGO WINNER
"Innovative . . . devastating. . . . A brilliant, expansive exploration of family and grief."
-The Guardian
"The book is rich with the texture of everyday living. It's these details that sing Betty to life and bring readers fully into the Appalachian landscape and the social milieu of Breathed."
-The Los Angeles Times
"Breathtaking."
-Vogue
"Prepare to be undone. . . . This is one of those rare books . . . that is so stunning, so beautiful, so piercing, you could never forget it. . . . Wow, wow, wow."
-Goop
"Sumptuous and intimate."
-O, The Oprah Magazine
"This book will break your heart open, in the best way."
-Good Housekeeping
"A traditional beach read this is not - unless your idea of a beach read involves ugly sobbing for a few hundred pages. But [Betty] is so beautiful you won't care about the tears."
-Entertainment Weekly
"Gorgeous. . . . A plaintive coming of age narrative."
-Glamour
"Fierce, vividly realized."
-The Columbus Dispatch
"Members of this hardscrabble family stride through their Ohio community like minor gods, leaving amazement in their wake. Highly recommended; a coming-of-age novel that is a treat for lovers of stylistic prose."
-Library Journal
"Epic, lyrical . . . McDaniel's sophomore work is a sweeping and heart-wrenching exploration of how we understand our parents' lives and how our children will one day understand our own."
-Booklist, (starred review)
THE SOCIETY OF MIDLAND AUTHORS AWARD WINNER
OHIOANA LIBRARY READERS CHOICE AWARDS WINNER
FRIENDS OF AMERICAN WRITERS CHICAGO WINNER
"Innovative . . . devastating. . . . A brilliant, expansive exploration of family and grief."
-The Guardian
"The book is rich with the texture of everyday living. It's these details that sing Betty to life and bring readers fully into the Appalachian landscape and the social milieu of Breathed."
-The Los Angeles Times
"Breathtaking."
-Vogue
"Prepare to be undone. . . . This is one of those rare books . . . that is so stunning, so beautiful, so piercing, you could never forget it. . . . Wow, wow, wow."
-Goop
"Sumptuous and intimate."
-O, The Oprah Magazine
"This book will break your heart open, in the best way."
-Good Housekeeping
"A traditional beach read this is not - unless your idea of a beach read involves ugly sobbing for a few hundred pages. But [Betty] is so beautiful you won't care about the tears."
-Entertainment Weekly
"Gorgeous. . . . A plaintive coming of age narrative."
-Glamour
"Fierce, vividly realized."
-The Columbus Dispatch
"Members of this hardscrabble family stride through their Ohio community like minor gods, leaving amazement in their wake. Highly recommended; a coming-of-age novel that is a treat for lovers of stylistic prose."
-Library Journal
"Epic, lyrical . . . McDaniel's sophomore work is a sweeping and heart-wrenching exploration of how we understand our parents' lives and how our children will one day understand our own."
-Booklist, (starred review)
Readers Top Reviews
C. MarstonDonna Blet
This is Bettys story of growing up in the Ohio Appalachia’s with her 7 other siblings. Born to a white mom and Cherokee dad. It’s both moving and heart wrenching. It’s written with prose and at times will make you cry. This’s the best book I’ve read this year and highly recommend it.
Danielle
How do I describe this book? It's so unlike anything I've read before. I read a sample first, and fell in love with the writing style, so I got the whole thing and plowed through in just a few days. Most books that move through life stories bore me, because they don't have a good enough common thread, goal, or mystery to string me along. This one had me grinning, then crying within minutes, and waiting to find out what happens. Each terrible thing that happened to this family, was a blow to the gutt, but there were fond moments too. Moments that come alive on the page and just about dance right in front of me. Watching Betty grow in her understanding of the world, herself, and her family never felt contrived. The twist at the end was particularly satisfying. Even if I was rooting for a solution more violent, the point was well taken. There are some valuable life lessons in this book.
Margot
Some of the most beautiful writing about tragedy after tragedy in a family set in the 1950-70s. Child abuse in one form or another and racism runs rampant in this heart-breaking story about a biracial (Cherokee and Caucasian) family in Ohio. So sad, so depressing. Maybe not a book for 2020; it’s been rough enough. Or maybe it’s perfect? The writing is fantastic either way.
Grammy Pammy
This is a very beautifully written tale of growing up different from even her siblings . It is amazing the resilience of this girl. I cannot stress enough of hiw well written it is. I highly recommend.
R. FordKathy Vikre
Choosing a rating for this one was hard. I both loved and hated this book at times. Because of that, I split the difference and went for 3 stars. In Betty, beautiful writing stitches a harrowing story full of pretty much every trigger warning that would put people off reading. (I do not recommend reading this one if you are not in a good place with your mental health. Seriously. I don't say that lightly.) The first sentence of Chapter 1 is: "A girl comes of age against the knife." The reader rides the edge of that knife. On one side is unrelenting cruelty, abuse, death, grief, and trauma--sometimes alarmingly casual and seemingly gratuitous--and on the other is the love and care of a father powerless to protect his children from the world into which they were born, who stitches his children's hearts and his own back together with stories, a gift the titular character inherits. Reading this book is like sifting endless pans of dark, sticky mud in search of the occasional, tiny fragment of a diamond. Was it ultimately worth it? I think so, for me personally. It felt like honoring the real Betty's story, and her father Landon's story, and the stories of their ancestors. Also, the ending was more hopeful and offered more closure than I expected. Still, it's not one I'll necessarily be recommending far and wide.
Short Excerpt Teaser
3
Awake, O north wind; and come, thou south; blow upon my garden.
-Song of Solomon 4:16
Ozark, Arkansas. A place of deep green wilderness on the edge of mountains. It is where I was born and where we returned to after Lint came into the world. We lived in a small house Dad had partially built on a concrete foundation. The walls were not yet up, so the insulation showed while tarp hung from the unfinished roof. In between building the house, Dad sold moonshine and worked underground like a mole along with the other coal miners.
The only one of us kids not living at home was Leland. He was twenty by then and had already been gone two years after enlisting in the army at eighteen. He was currently stationed in Korea. He would write letters to Mom and Dad. Leland never wrote about anything related to the army or the reasons he was stationed in any particular place. He would write about things that made it seem like he was on a trip.
I did some fishing the other day, he wrote. I used a Korean fishing pole. It's called a gyeonji. Caught a fish that looked like one of the bass back home.
In his own letters, Dad would update Leland on where we were.
In Arkansas now, Dad wrote in his sideways cursive. Lots of blue sage and coneflowers. I don't see much of it. Underground, there is only rock and crust. That's what I get for being a miner.
The mines were not near to our house, so Dad would take the train and stay in a tent outside to save on expense. Days would go by before we'd hear from him again.
The afternoon he called, I was on my belly on the plywood floor. Scattered around me were crayons Dad had molded out of beeswax and tinted with things like coffee or blackberries. When the phone started to ring, I picked up the red crayon and continued writing.
"Jesus Crimson. Get the goddamn phone, Betty." Mom's voice came from the kitchen.
I grabbed the receiver.
"I was writin'," I said to whoever was on the line before I even said hello. "You've interrupted me."
"Betty?"
"Oh, hi, Dad. I'm writin' a story about a cat. The cat has a tail made of violets. I've made the violets red because you never remember they're purple. It's the tail that eats the mice, not the cat itself. Ain't that somethin'? I've never seen a cat's tail eat mice. It's always the mouth, but I don't see why it can't be the tail that eats the mice as long as the tail has teeth."
When I stopped to take a breath, Dad took the opportunity to ask where Mom was.
"She's in the kitchen with Lint," I said.
"Go get her. I need her to come pick me up from the mines." His voice was unusually tight, like wound-up wire.
"Why ain'tcha ridin' the train back?" I asked.
"It's not runnin' until late tonight. Now go get your momma. They're about to let the mine monster out. You don't want the monster to eat your dear ol' dad, do ya?"
I hollered to Mom that Dad was on the phone. Once I heard her coming, I slipped the red crayon into my pocket and ran outside.
Trustin and Flossie were in the backyard using sticks as guns to shoot one another, while Fraya sat on the grass chewing on a dandelion.
Pretending I would turn to stone if any of them saw me, I snuck out to our Rambler station wagon parked in the yard. I made sure to slap the raccoon tail hanging from the car's antenna like I did every time for luck.
Quietly, I climbed up on the bumper and crawled through the open tailgate window. I hid beneath some blankets and waited. I didn't make a sound as Mom came out of the house, letting the screen door slam after her. She had her tatty frame purse open under her arm and was using her free hands to undo a bobby pin to hold the blondest side of her hair back.
"Fraya?" Mom's voice was a harsh shout.
Fraya quickly got up and ran around to the front. She stopped halfway up the porch steps, her bare feet overlapping.
"Yes, Mom?" Fraya asked.
"Watch Lint." Mom pulled her purse out from under her arm and snapped it shut. "He's in the kitchen. If he starts cryin', show 'im a rock. I have to go pick up your father. Jesus Crimson. If it's not one thing with him, it's another."
Fraya walked sideways up the steps, giving Mom room to pass.
"Now, I don't wanna come back and hear Lint callin' you Momma again," Mom told Fraya. "Understand me, girl?"
"He does it on his own." Fraya looked down. "I don't teach 'im to say it or nothin'."
"Don't you act all innocent with me. I know what you been doin'. The way you crad...
Awake, O north wind; and come, thou south; blow upon my garden.
-Song of Solomon 4:16
Ozark, Arkansas. A place of deep green wilderness on the edge of mountains. It is where I was born and where we returned to after Lint came into the world. We lived in a small house Dad had partially built on a concrete foundation. The walls were not yet up, so the insulation showed while tarp hung from the unfinished roof. In between building the house, Dad sold moonshine and worked underground like a mole along with the other coal miners.
The only one of us kids not living at home was Leland. He was twenty by then and had already been gone two years after enlisting in the army at eighteen. He was currently stationed in Korea. He would write letters to Mom and Dad. Leland never wrote about anything related to the army or the reasons he was stationed in any particular place. He would write about things that made it seem like he was on a trip.
I did some fishing the other day, he wrote. I used a Korean fishing pole. It's called a gyeonji. Caught a fish that looked like one of the bass back home.
In his own letters, Dad would update Leland on where we were.
In Arkansas now, Dad wrote in his sideways cursive. Lots of blue sage and coneflowers. I don't see much of it. Underground, there is only rock and crust. That's what I get for being a miner.
The mines were not near to our house, so Dad would take the train and stay in a tent outside to save on expense. Days would go by before we'd hear from him again.
The afternoon he called, I was on my belly on the plywood floor. Scattered around me were crayons Dad had molded out of beeswax and tinted with things like coffee or blackberries. When the phone started to ring, I picked up the red crayon and continued writing.
"Jesus Crimson. Get the goddamn phone, Betty." Mom's voice came from the kitchen.
I grabbed the receiver.
"I was writin'," I said to whoever was on the line before I even said hello. "You've interrupted me."
"Betty?"
"Oh, hi, Dad. I'm writin' a story about a cat. The cat has a tail made of violets. I've made the violets red because you never remember they're purple. It's the tail that eats the mice, not the cat itself. Ain't that somethin'? I've never seen a cat's tail eat mice. It's always the mouth, but I don't see why it can't be the tail that eats the mice as long as the tail has teeth."
When I stopped to take a breath, Dad took the opportunity to ask where Mom was.
"She's in the kitchen with Lint," I said.
"Go get her. I need her to come pick me up from the mines." His voice was unusually tight, like wound-up wire.
"Why ain'tcha ridin' the train back?" I asked.
"It's not runnin' until late tonight. Now go get your momma. They're about to let the mine monster out. You don't want the monster to eat your dear ol' dad, do ya?"
I hollered to Mom that Dad was on the phone. Once I heard her coming, I slipped the red crayon into my pocket and ran outside.
Trustin and Flossie were in the backyard using sticks as guns to shoot one another, while Fraya sat on the grass chewing on a dandelion.
Pretending I would turn to stone if any of them saw me, I snuck out to our Rambler station wagon parked in the yard. I made sure to slap the raccoon tail hanging from the car's antenna like I did every time for luck.
Quietly, I climbed up on the bumper and crawled through the open tailgate window. I hid beneath some blankets and waited. I didn't make a sound as Mom came out of the house, letting the screen door slam after her. She had her tatty frame purse open under her arm and was using her free hands to undo a bobby pin to hold the blondest side of her hair back.
"Fraya?" Mom's voice was a harsh shout.
Fraya quickly got up and ran around to the front. She stopped halfway up the porch steps, her bare feet overlapping.
"Yes, Mom?" Fraya asked.
"Watch Lint." Mom pulled her purse out from under her arm and snapped it shut. "He's in the kitchen. If he starts cryin', show 'im a rock. I have to go pick up your father. Jesus Crimson. If it's not one thing with him, it's another."
Fraya walked sideways up the steps, giving Mom room to pass.
"Now, I don't wanna come back and hear Lint callin' you Momma again," Mom told Fraya. "Understand me, girl?"
"He does it on his own." Fraya looked down. "I don't teach 'im to say it or nothin'."
"Don't you act all innocent with me. I know what you been doin'. The way you crad...
