The Child

In the understated latest from Skomsvold (The Faster I Walk, the Smaller I Am), an unnamed narrator addresses her newborn baby, recounting the major events of her adult life. The narrator, a writer who at one point assumed she would remain unmarried and childless, now in her late 30s has an infant and an 18-month-old, and notes that the growth of her family has been “going so fast... only [her] writing has gone so very slowly.” A few key sequences from her premotherhood life are first gestured at, then referred to with familiarity and finally returned to for more in-depth treatment. Among these are a long illness at 25, an unhappy love affair with another writer, and the declining health of her beloved great aunt. Eventually, the narrator turns to the ur-story, that of meeting and marrying her children’s father, Bo, who courted her with invitations to coffee and concert dates over five years, which she mostly declined, preferring the solitude of writing and the company of her dog. As a meditation on motherhood, Skomsvold’s work retreads familiar territory—the tension between the solitude necessary for creative work and the desire for a family—but the subtle humor and cogent prose keep the reader engaged. This brief volume is a little underwhelming, but it nevertheless holds some appeal. (Oct.)