Sarah Miller is one of the authors whose blogs I’ve read long before I ever cracked open their books. I came upon her blog by happenstance, mostly; I think I clicked on her profile from a comment she left at either Erin‘s or Becky‘s blogs, liked what I read and kept going back.

So, when the library finally got a copy of her first book, Miss Spitfire, I nabbed it. I found that it was an interesting reading experience for me; I “know” the author, and like what I’ve read from her. I don’t think I came to this book with any sort of objectivity. I wanted to like it because I like Sarah’s blog.

But I didn’t have to worry: it’s a genuinely good book.

Sarah (I feel weird writing “Miller” they way I do with authors in most of my reviews) has tackled an interesting, and difficult, topic: Helen Keller and Annie Sullivan. Interesting, because it’s a fascinating and inspiring story. Difficult, because it’s been done before. Definitively.
Yet, Sarah found something fresh and new to write about: Annie’s story. I knew absolutely nothing about Annie Sullivan — her childhood, her disability, how she ended up at the Keller’s house in the first place. And knowing those things makes Annie’s struggle to teach Helen that much more interesting, and, yes, profound.

I also enjoyed Sarah’s writing style. She had another difficult task: how to make a story where one of the main characters can’t communicate compelling. And she succeeded beautifully. There’s lots of internal reflection and thought on Annie’s part, but there’s also a vivid sense of helplessness and frustration on both Annie’s and Helen’s part. I think Sarah portrayed Helen beautifully; she wasn’t a “creature”, but an extremely frustrated (and spoiled!) little girl. And the way Annie handled her was both hard and loving. Sarah focused a lot on Annie’s need to be loved, and I’m glad she did. It made the journey to communicate with Helen that much more gripping and the eventual connection between Helen and Annie that much more touching.

I also like how Sarah focused on language as the ultimate connection with the world. There’s a scene early on before Annie meets Helen, where she’s musing about teaching Helen.

Closing my eyes, I try to form a wordless though with the few tools Helen can use: shape, size, texture, sent and taste. Without much trouble I conjure up a mind-feeling for an apple: round, firm, and smooth, with a soapy-sweet scent that fills my mouth.

But I have to fight to keep the words from my thoughts. My mind aches to say “apple.” As that wordless apple-felling hovers in my head, it’s like holding my breath to keep my brain from reminding me, No words, no words, only sensations. No matter how I try, I can’t silence that voice in my head. Even when I block “apple” from my mind, streams of thoughts whir in the background, as if my brain can’t bear not whispering to itself. When I finally give up, a cold worry has twisted it’s way into my stomach.

How am I to teach Helen what language is, when words themselves have no scent, taste or texture?

That’s the ultimate reason this story is compelling: because Annie Sullivan succeeded. She managed to teach a girl who could not see or hear the meaning of language and how to reach the outside world. Annie’s story is one that’s worth telling. I’m glad that Sarah chose to do so.