Most of my writing career, I’ve heard agents and editors say I write “quiet” books. As far as I can tell, “quiet” is code for “literary.” Often these books are about ordinary life. If the writer of them is very good, we see the extraordinary rising up from the familiar without the help of exaggerated plot devices—just the regular come and go among people whose lives have somehow become remarkable.

I’ve just read one such novel—To Stay, To Stay, To Stay by Devon Halliday. It’s the story of the lives going on in fictional, Eden, Ohio. We meet a cast of characters, each of them in the middle of situations that will eventually require them to make choices. The plot is determined by the decisions they make and not by any sort of external force. I was hooked from the beginning because Halliday has a way of making me care about her characters. She does that by opening them up so readers can see all the things that made them just like us—flawed, noble, fearful, courageous, jubilant, and worthy of love. I can’t begin to tell you how wonderful it was to discover this novel.

It seems to me books like To Stay, To Stay, To Stay are increasingly rare these days. Maybe that’s because the agents are right. Editors are looking for “big” books. I’ll leave it to you to define what a “big” book is. I only know I apparently don’t know how to write one. I’m happy, then, whenever I find books that still believe in the careful observation of characters and invite me into their lives.

Halliday, for instance, is whip-smart when it comes to understanding the nuances of love relationships. At one point, she writes, “This is how you survive your life: you tell lies and then eventually one of them emerges as true.” Earlier, a character wonders whether he still loves his wife: “Love is the wrong word; it doesn’t have enough dimension to it. . . .Knowledge is the thing that love evolves into, eventually. It’s deeper than love, and also a little bit sadder.” I could go on with example after example of the wisdom of this book, but I invite you to read it for yourselves. Read it if you’re the sort who likes “quiet” books where nothing much happens, unless you consider, as I do, the lives of people trying their best to love one another, and themselves, something indeed.

I give thanks for books like To Stay, To Stay, To Stay—“quiet” books that remind us of all that ordinary folks have at stake every single day. Devon Halliday offers us a lesson whether we’re writers or not. Pay attention to one another. Look at all the ways our lives rub together, how we can open ourselves to one another and how we can sometimes come apart.