CarrollBlog

CarrollBlog 2.13

Wed, 13 Feb 2013 05:11:13 +0000

I once had a very formal editor in England. Very proper, very British. While chatting one day I told her I'd read in the paper about a laboratory in Switzerland that had been experimenting with transplanting pubic hair onto the head of bald guys. Initially the concept appeared to be good because that hair is thick and healthy and God knows it’s tough stuff. But after having done a number of experimental transplants they discovered a problem-- when the men’s scalps sweated, they smelled strongly like hot crotch. Obviously the process included transplanting the whole hair and its follicle so it wasn’t just the hair that got a new home upstairs. After I'd finished telling the story, my editor was quiet a while and then said very carefully and regally as only a Brit can "Well, I suppose that gives a whole new meaning to the word Dickhead."

CarrollBlog 2.8

Fri, 08 Feb 2013 09:06:59 +0000

I want to be sitting somewhere. I want to be sitting somewhere with you. Somewhere as the sun yellows down to orange, and night leaks blue then purple into the sky, like ink dribbled slowly into a glass of water. Far above, the glint of a plane draws a white contrail as vivid as school chalk across the evening canvas. We’re in Greece somewhere by the sea. It’s hot—summer. Or maybe a late Fall day somewhere up north. Crisp, when sunsets come and go quickly so you have to pay full attention or you’ll miss them. Two Adirondack chairs side by side, forest green, or no color at all because they’ve lived out in the hard weather for years. You are telling me a story I’ve never heard before about your childhood. Your voice is quiet and intimate, but also alive and peppery with humor. Your hand is on my arm. I am grinning. I’m grinning because it is you talking and your story is good and I know soon we will rise together and have a wonderful meal where the food and talk will be equally good. Afterwards perhaps we will return to these chairs by the sea, or a forest, a desert, or by nothing important at all to listen to the night, as dense and black by then as the inside of a closed drawer.
And you will say. And I will say.

That is all I want on this foggy winter evening.

CarrollBlog 1.18

Fri, 18 Jan 2013 20:43:53 +0000

All right Carroll-reading community-- here's a challenge: DT wrote in that he wants to have a tattoo done using a quote from one of my books. He asked if I had any suggestions. I said I would think hard on it. Then it struck me you too should be consulted because some of you know the books better than I do at this point and have your favorite lines. So-- what do you suggest? The quote obviously can't be too long or else it'll take up all of his skin. When (if) I come up with something I think works, I'll post it here. But in the meantime-- start thinking-- and suggesting.

Post your thoughts here: http://www.facebook.com/thejonathancarroll

CarrollBlog 11.31

Mon, 31 Dec 2012 06:56:04 +0000

On this last day of the year I was thinking about sea glass and what an extraordinarily good metaphor it is for what we all hope for in life. When it was created and initially used, the glass had no value. It was part of a greenish Coke bottle, a brown wine bottle, olive oil, or a blue drinking glass. Nothing of importance. Use up the contents and throw the bottle away. Somehow or other the glass broke and its pieces were scattered. This one ends up in the ocean. For a long time, maybe even years, it lives there being tossed and tumbled, roiled here and there by the whims of the sea. It's not a good life, but it manages to keep intact. All the time it's in there however, its sharp edges are being worn away by the water's constant movement. The violence of storms, the bleaching sun, saltwater... all these things transform it. Eventually it gets washed up on a beach somewhere. It is the same glass it once was but also something new. Not entirely but almost. The color has been burned away by the sun and the acid sea, making the glass more translucent, ethereal, and lovely. It has no more edges. But without them it has taken on a shape, a form, that is often singular and truly one of a kind. Sooner or later someone comes by and notices it. They are immediately attracted. They love it for what it has become. Often they take it home and in some cases, even turn it into a piece of jewelry or something else valuable. Something to treasure.

CarrollBlog 11.30

Fri, 30 Nov 2012 18:23:27 +0000

OPEN ROAD MEDIA, the wizards who publish my e-books, just sent over a new JC project they're working on that already looks stunning. No details yet, but those of you who enjoy the things I post here AND my work, you're going to love what's coming.
Stay tuned.

Mon, 26 Nov 2012 11:13:39 +0000

TODAY ONLY/November 26: Find my ebooks on sale at 80% off. A present for you or the perfect gift? Today is the day to buy and auto-deliver for Dec 25th! : http://bit.ly/UTLUjB

CarrollBlog 11.23

Fri, 23 Nov 2012 18:17:25 +0000

Fear pounds on the door to our heart demanding to be let in. Joy is modest and often comes into our lives like a shy person entering a room; it can take a while to even notice it’s there.

CarrollBlog 11.12

Mon, 12 Nov 2012 06:36:19 +0000

While walking the dog yesterday, I heard someone coming up behind me so I stepped aside. A man dressed in runner’s clothes and pushing a baby carriage jogged by me. I thought another one of those Dad-joggers who volunteer to take the baby along when they go for their run. But what struck me was he was running pretty fast and the traffic light at the corner in front of us was turning red. When he got to the corner, the man didn’t stop—he jogged across the street. Luckily no cars were coming but on reaching the other side, the carriage caught on something and flipped over. I gasped and ran towards it. A baby screamed and the father, reaching down into the spilled carriage, pulled out---a large animal. It was brown, had big ears and looked very furry. Shocked by this totally surreal sight, I froze. It took several seconds for me to realize it was a baby dressed in one of those cute all body suits made to look like an animal. In this case, a bear cub. I reached the man and asked if the child was okay. He nodded but wouldn’t make eye contact and moved away as quickly as he could. He must have known I’d seen the whole thing and read my mind because it was yelling “You are one lucky motherfucker, *Dad*.”

CarrollBlog 11.9

Fri, 09 Nov 2012 17:32:11 +0000

My recent collection of short stories, THE WOMAN WHO MARRIED A CLOUD, will be released as an e-book across all platforms on November 27. Only $12.95. You can already pre-order it at the Amazon/Kindle store.

CarrollBlog 11.4

Sun, 04 Nov 2012 22:45:08 +0000

Name

When did your name
change from a proper noun
to a charm?

Its three vowels
like jewels
on the thread of my breath.

Its consonants
brushing my mouth
like a kiss.

I love your name.
I say it again and again
in this summer rain.

I see it,
discreet in the alphabet,
like a wish.

I pray it
into the night
till its letters are light.

I hear your name
rhyming, rhyming,
rhyming with everything.

— Carol Ann Duffy

CarrollBlog 11.2

Thu, 01 Nov 2012 16:27:24 +0000

I just learned that for the month of November, Kindle books over at Amazon has chosen THE MARRIAGE OF STICKS as one of their "Kindle 100," which means e-books cheap. STICKS costs $2.99 for all of 11/2012. OPEN ROAD MEDIA, which published the e-book version, said they will also offer the book for that price on all e-book formats in November.

CarrollBlog 11.1

Thu, 01 Nov 2012 08:37:52 +0000

You Don't Know What Love Is
by Kim Addonizio

You don't know what love is
but you know how to raise it in me
like a dead girl winched up from a river. How to
wash off the sludge, the stench of our past.
How to start clean. This love even sits up
and blinks; amazed, she takes a few shaky steps.
Any day now she'll try to eat solid food. She'll want
to get into a fast car, one low to the ground, and drive
to some cinderblock shithole in the desert
where she can drink and get sick and then
dance in nothing but her underwear. You know
where she's headed, you know she'll wake up
with an ache she can't locate and no money
and a terrible thirst. So to hell
with your warm hands sliding inside my shirt
and your tongue down my throat
like an oxygen tube. Cover me
in black plastic. Let the mourners through.

CarrollBlog 10.26

Fri, 26 Oct 2012 17:34:42 +0000

"He never forgave her for being so wonderful at the beginning of their relationship. Later when everything went south between them, all he could do was remember that magical woman and compare."

fragment from a stillborn story

CarrollBlog 10.21

Sun, 21 Oct 2012 19:09:24 +0000

Smells are unlike any other memories. They remain with us fully 100% forever on some remote desert island of the mind where they keep the lowest profile. Unless they’re shaken awake by something, they lay silent and still like sleeping dogs under the table. But once roused, they return as completely as the moment we first encountered them.

from the new book

CarrollBlog 10.19

Fri, 19 Oct 2012 10:41:43 +0000

Much of the time we are here pretending our way through our days. Now and then things come up quietly behind us-- new love, death, unexpected surprises both good or bad-- and scream BOO! We stagger, sometimes our whole *life* staggers at the shock. It can take a long time to recover and get back again to our normal pretending.