murmurs

New

2012-01-01T15:27:00.000-05:00

The mashed potatoes were starting to stiffen in the bowl.

“Stop your whining and eat your meat,” Angela said to the four-year-old, before turning toward the others. “Sorry, Nathan, you were saying?”

“Just that when we were young, our lives were always ahead of us. Perpetually ahead, rigorously being plotted out. Now that we’re older, we look to the past and feel nostalgic. But I think what we’re really pining for is a sense of possibility. Of not yet knowing where we’ll go, who we might become. So we pine, even while feeling a little betrayed by the simpletons we once were.”

He took a pea from his spoon and held it between two fingers. “Do you know that chimps experience the greatest surge in serotonin during the anticipation of a reward, and not during the reward itself? Humans romanticize their childhoods in the same fashion. We project bliss onto our deepest ignorance.” He popped the pea in his mouth and shrugged. “I mean, what if the reward’s not so great after all.”

“I beg your pardon,” their mother said.

“Your cooking excepted, Mom,” he said and they all laughed.

The girl dropped her fork to the floor. Angela got her a clean one and sat back down. They felt the strength of winter in the blackness outside, and unconsciously moved their chairs closer to the table.

“So where’s the sweet spot? The magical place where we’re anticipating and realizing all at once?” Angela said. “Is it in our twenties? Our thirties? When we’re falling in love?”

He opened his mouth but their mother cut in. “Sorry, dears, but--” her voice rose--”did you take your pills yet, Pop?”

They looked dutifully toward the end of the table, where the old man sat. He straightened up, patted the front pocket of his flannel shirt, and painstakingly removed five small pills, lining each of them on the table's edge before washing them down, one by one, with an equal measure of water and effort. They let out a collective breath when he slumped back in the chair, exhausted.

“Everything okay, Grandpa?” Angela said, noting the barely touched food on his plate.

“Fine, fine.”

“But Mommy, I don’t want to eat it.”

Angela plucked the knife and fork from her daughter’s hands. “Here. Let me cut it.”

“No! I want to cut! Me! Me!”

“Fine. I’ll give you five more minutes, then no dessert. And for the love of God, don’t gnaw on it like that!”

After a minute, Nathan cleared his throat.

“The sweet spot, of course, is unique to the individual herself. And it’s too simplistic to view it as some one-time phenomenon. If human beings define any characteristic, it’s tenacity. We will invent new illusions for ourselves at every opportunity. We will retreat into others’ illusions, if we lack the creativity to formulate our own. We will invent new lines in the sand, like the arbitrary marking of a new year and the blank slate it pretends.”

Their mother put down her fork. “Heavens. Is this any kind of talk for the new year?"

“Sorry, Mom.”

“Now eat your sauerkraut. It's good luck.”

“Right,” Nathan said, catching his sister's eye, who smiled behind her napkin. “Because luck's just a big ol' helping of metaphysical roughage."

“You're making fun again."

"It's a joke, Mom."

"Well, I don't care to understand it. Why the two of you have to look down on simple things . . . simple people--"

"Jesus . . ."

The sparring devolved into bickering. Nobody noticed the old man catch the little girl’s eye and hold it for a good, long moment. He took up his fork in his left hand and pinned the side of pork to his plate. Then, sawing with his right hand, he forced the knife through the meat until a piece broke free. He put down the knife, switched the fork from his left hand to his right and lifted the meat to his mouth, holding it there for a good, long moment.

He looked at her and nodded.

She seized her silverware, looking at the individual pieces before her. A spoon clattered to the table. She gripped the fork in her left hand and stabbed the hunk of meat. Then, with her right fist held tight about the handle, she moved her knife bit by painful bit until a chunk of flesh ripped free. She looked up in surprise and found the old man’s eye trained squarely on her. He took the meat in his mouth and began to chew. The girl sat a little straighter in her chair and began to chew, too.

“Fine, fine,” he murmured to her, beneath the din.

She and the old man ate in silence, her legs swinging freely beneath the table. And when she smiled at him, a little bit of meat stuck through the gap in her mouth where a new tooth was just coming in.

For my Granddad, whose absence is felt at every family gathering.

Closer

2011-12-19T13:53:00.001-05:00

("Traffic" by Jessica Brilli)

Brake lights on a highway. Not her favorite sight. It must be an accident. Or road construction. Either way, it wasn't right. Not when they were so close to home. Not after their day.

She looked out the passenger window. A blue sedan pulled alongside as her husband tapped the brakes. The driver of the car was looking out. Their eyes collided in the semi-darkness.

Toby, talking on his bluetooth, didn’t hear the sound she made.

The years had altered his face, but underneath it, he was the same. Same eyes, same lips, same skeptical look arching into incredulity. Christopher. Toby nudged the car forward. Her hand reached out for a grip, a hold. A gap opened between Christopher’s car and the truck ahead of him. Someone honked a horn.

She looked at her husband. She looked to the window. The gap was gone and there he was.

A smile tugged at her face. He was smiling, too; almost against his will, it looked. She smiled more as his expression turned a somber corner. Her eyes said "what the fuck?" He shook his head and inched forward.

Reluctantly, was it? She noticed the woman nodding off in the passenger seat next to Christopher and the two kids in the back, watching a DVD of Aladdin. Christopher pulled a full car length ahead of her and Toby. She could see his eyes in the driver’s side mirror, watching her. A green glow suffused the car. Then yellow. Then green again. The seatbelt was snug between her breasts. Too tight, really.

Everything suddenly too tight. And oh God, this was happening. This was all right now.

It made no sense. It made no sense that they should be here, three hundred miles removed from their Indiana life, in a shitty Columbus traffic jam, eleven years after the fact.

Did he live here, too, then?

“Nora said twenty, but I told her that was crazy.”

She didn’t know who her husband was talking to. That seemed significant. She hadn’t been paying attention. How long had she not been paying attention? The flashing brake lights were arrhythmic, dissonant.

“Not reliable at all, no.”

Her foot pushed a nonexistent pedal. Christopher’s car was two lengths ahead. She couldn't see his eyes. Was he watching for her? He must be. He was. A stuffed animal of some kind had rigor mortis in the back windshield. There was a bumper sticker she couldn't make out on the rear left side. The license plate read Michigan.

Christopher hated bumper stickers.

Michigan?

“Shouldn’t be a problem. Trust me.”

A car from their lane edged in front of Christopher. Toby took advantage. She gripped the arm rest and looked over. He wasn’t looking back. He was speaking to his wife, who had finally stirred. She tried to get a look--a good, gulping look--at the woman’s face, but Toby forged ahead.

They should talk. They should have talked more. They ought to have talked. It was shudderingly obvious: how afraid she'd been to talk. It was not okay that they hadn’t talked. She had things to say. Surprising things she hadn’t given voice to. Silly, dormant things waking up all over the place. Brake-lights-on-a-freeway things.

She eased back into her seat. Toby was coasting now. Twenty miles per hour. Twenty-five. The gridlock was breaking up. They’d be gone in a--

The seatbelt pulled her back.

“Fuck!”

She craned her neck, but it wasn’t necessary. He was there, next to her. Five feet away, if that. Christopher. Chris. Her once-upon-a-time guy. His wife leaned across the middle arm rests, saying something to the kids. He looked over at her, sober now. His hands were tight on the steering wheel.

“Sorry about that, man. We’ve hit a traffic jam here.”

Toby was talking to Ryan. That was his Ryan voice.

The cars were stalled. All that momentum had been a tease. She looked at Chris, and he looked at her. Each second of looking felt long and compressed and awful and aching. His eyes held hers and would not be shaken. Her breath came fast on the windowpane. She wiped away the fog and touched the side of her nose. After a moment, he touched his own.

It was their sign, their signal, their lighthouse at sea. Rescue me. For the love of God, rescue me from this man, this woman, this never-ending party banter. Take me home again.

“Yeah? Same here.”

She knew this was it. The once-in-a-lifetime chance. She didn’t care what cost. She wrote her words in the condensation just as his wife turned and gestured to Chris. The lane was clearing again. His jaw tightened, he nodded slightly, and the car lurched forward.

She turned to the road, but kept her fingers on the window, guarding the backward thing she'd scrawled. Toby was talking about football now. He reached over and touched her swollen belly as they passed a broken-down truck in the median. The driver’s face was an impression of misery.

She grasped Toby’s hand in her own and leaned back, the blood coursing through her, the highway lights pulsing faster and faster, the exit signs looming and sucking by. The world around her was dark and mysterious, endlessly dangerous and shockingly normal.

Chris’s car started to accelerate, and he put more distance between them. This was it, then. In a moment they would be gone. Her eyes swam to the right and she could finally make out, in the roiling darkness, the bumper sticker on Chris’s car.

If you’re close enough to read this, don’t be.

Phantom Limbs

2011-11-19T09:55:00.001-05:00

(Strahlenlinien by Wassily Kandinsky)

Too much time on her hands:

that was the problem.

Time was the artery,

a dark alley for thoughts,

and she’d been caught red-handed too much.

Growth was required,

that was obvious.

Effort was imperative,

this was plain.

A more judicious consideration for the feelings of others

was a plausible cure for a personal pain.

So she tilted at windmills

in twice-a-week yoga

and she experimented on weekends

with gluten-free vegan.

She texted her kids

on the red-eye to Newark

and got transcendentally meditated

on her commute’s circle jerk.

The secret to a peace of mind is in

the eye of a furious trance.

Months passed,

the leaves let go.

One day her iCal suggested

she rotate her tires

and for no good reason,

she wept and caved in.

The policeman would say later

she simply “ran out of gas.”

The funny part was,

she explained to the shrink,

is that the person she wanted to be

and the person she was

were so finally, so very nearly aligned:

She’d almost won.

“And then--

the same phantom limbs

that I have to amputate

all over again.”

He held out a Xanax;

she looked at his ring.

“Do you remember Robert Frost’s

three little words,

the ones that summed up

all he’d gotten from life?”

She shook her head,

accepted the pill.

“It goes on.”

Poetry By Numbers

2011-10-25T13:20:00.000-04:00

The starts were the worst. The gun would fire, and we’d all take off across the field like gazelles pretending to be lionesses, checking one another out from the corners of our eyes, elbows jostling, dirt flying into our eyes and open mouths. In general, I've found that legs don’t like transitioning from sweet apathy to full-blown sprint. MY legs, at any rate, begged me to SLOW THE F*CK DOWN already. While the voice in my head could only repeat, “3.1 miles. 3.1 miles. 3.1 miles . . . ”

I think most runners start out as number-crunchers. The sport is rife with OCD-types. At first, you’re desperate to make it one lousy mile without stopping. You celebrate when you do, but not for long, because one mile must, through some psychological law of momentum, turn into two. You begin to wonder whether a marathoner might not be buried deep, deep inside you. You start Googling how many calories a mile of running burns (and is that gross calories or net calories, and how does that compare to walking or gardening or scrubbing the toilet or....?). You start approaching the bathroom scale not like a mortal enemy, but as a girlfriend with whom you’ve lately reconciled but are still a little wary of. You start looking at that cookie in your hand and thinking, “It would take me 1.2 miles of running to burn off this stinking, good-for-nothing cookie.” And then you eat it, anyway.

The thing is, the fear started well before the gun went off. It started a full day before meets, which always took place on Saturdays. During track and cross country seasons, Friday nights were spaghetti nights. I ate a big plate of the pasta (for the carbs) and got to bed at an hour too decent for any self-respecting high school kid. The problem was: I couldn’t sleep. I’d stare at the green glow of my digital clock and think: 8 hours til I have to get up and do this thing. 7.5 hours. 7 . . .

Sometimes, I’d wake up just before the alarm went off, in the dread silence of darkness, with my heart hammering in anticipation and my gut a quivering slush. I rarely felt more alone in the world.

The numbers obsession has gotten so bad with me lately that I’ve been daydreaming about buying this:

It’s a Garmin watch. But really, they ought to call it A Runner’s Wet Dream. This little baby has GPS tracking, tells you exactly how far you’ve run, your mile paces and splits, and what the heck your heart is doing (i.e. humming or exploding) at every step along the way. I saw a guy at the starting line of my recent 5K wearing one of these bad boys, and got a little starry-eyed. So it took up half of his forearm and vaguely called to mind a house arrestee’s ankle bracelet. It has a fully-automatic training log feature. Which means I could fully obsess about my numbers AFTER the run, too! And for the rest of my days, however many those number.

I’d usually see my dad stationed at the first mile. He’d have his arm raised, staring at the watch on his wrist and chewing urgently at his mustache. As I ran by, my spikes flipping up tiny divots of grass, he’d announce my time in a booming voice that would have embarrassed more if the pain had made room for it. I was fast. Somehow, in spite of my loathing for the sport, I was good. Fear is a motivator. I never knew how not to push myself. I understood, by the time I crossed the finish line, my dad would have made it over there, too. To not finish in the Top 10--or for my time to tick over, say, 23:00--meant that the fear was self-validating. Because a stopwatch never lies.

I have been running for 4-5 months now. I’ve gone as far as 6.5 miles and I had my first race in 18 years this past Sunday. I finished in 25:09. My father wasn’t there, because I didn’t tell my parents when the race was. But I saw my husband and kids at the finish line. Paul took some pics:

(Pre-Race: Pain? What pain?)

(Oh. THAT pain.)

(The agony after, or the one my husband endearingly

refers to as "Sarah pooping her pants." Included

as a "F*ck you" to vanity and because

we have cute kids.)

Our daughter was particularly impressed with the awards at the ceremony afterward. She got a kick out of the fourth and fifth place trophies, with golden sneakers sprouting wings from their heels. The female first place finisher for this race was a high school cross-country runner. With legs like a gazelle’s.

There was the race my sophomore year in which I ran a sub-21:00 and placed second in the league. Something happened during that race that was utterly unique to that day. For that year's championship, we ran on a golf course bordered by a large hill and wood. I knew this course well. It had a loop we ran twice, and oh holy God, how I dreaded that hill. The first time was bad enough. The second time, with your quads seizing up and each breath like a blowtorch, was worse. But not this time. This time, I attacked the hill, and when I made it to the top, my stride lengthened naturally--like something simply unfolded inside of me--and I let gravity take over. I could have run that hill over and over again. I have never felt more at home in my body, more in control of my fate. My eyes looked past the lead runner and out to the horizon, and my fear floated somewhere up into the sky behind me. Runner’s high.

I still have a hard time not pushing myself. I ran this latest 5K as hard as any I ever ran in high school (if with less pliable legs). But maybe, just maybe, I’ve gained something unquantifiable in the years between. Maybe some runners start out as number-crunchers and, if they take enough strides, at their own deliberate pace, they can arrive at poetry.

I like feeling my legs get stronger. I like feeling I’ve been somewhere. I like it when the river is shrouded in fog, and I run alongside it, my arm stretched out to the side, as if I might slice it, and the sun is a jewel left behind by the moon and I am just an animal enjoying the morning, like the river’s blue heron . . . solitary, if not alone.

I think I’m going to pass on the Garmin. Don’t get me wrong: I will always be number-happy--and a part of me is eyeing the Athens Half Marathon in April--but for now, I don’t want to think about racing or goals or how fast I’m running or what kind of cookies I’m feeling guilty over. I just want to put one foot in front of the other, for as long as I can, and see where it takes me.

There’s a street I love on the east side of Athens. It’s a brick-paved road lined with big trees and old houses wrapped by large porches and gardens. I make a point of running down this street twice a week. Any more, and it would become mundane. Any less, and I would miss it. The street is set on a gradual decline, and I let my legs kick out as I turn the corner. I let gravity take over and the momentum flow through me. The leaves are falling like a ticker-tape parade and they crunch beneath my soles. It’s autumn. And for a moment--though my head insists it’s chemical, that it’s merely endorphins doing their business--I know that my feet can surely fly.

Small Houses

2011-08-25T15:06:00.000-04:00

("Blue Star" by Joan Miro)

It’s early and I’m but half alive,

so I close the bedroom door to sit

with a book of poems and a cuppa

for a morning reprieve, a little kick-starter.

Breathe. Sip. Repeat if desired.

But the pages are put on hold

by the sharp, plaintive

voice of our daughter,

dulled by distance

but the keener for it,

so that I may absorb the sincerity

of her reproach,

if not so much the particulars.

My husband responds
with a deep vibrato;

she falls silent, mollified.

And my attention is drawn

downward, to the poet’s name,

to the archway of the title’s “A,”

until the whump-whump

of our son’s pachyderm feet

takes the short measure
of a short hallway

and I am fallen away.

Another breath, another sip, I lean
further in. I might turn on the fan,

instead I let it be. Small houses

have their rewards.

And the poems are what poems
should be: a quiet cup where life steeps.

The heartbeat of a graveyard where

someone may pass and press

an ear, long after we’re beneath.

They are so good they hurt.

The dying wail of the iPad game,

signaling another clean defeat,

and I attempt some stretches,

testing each muscle to find its resistance,

that all’s as it should be, that I am, in short, up to par.

I am just thirty-five and these things are starting
to become more important to me.

Probably because they insist upon it.

And the birds don’t know they’re ribbons

in the blue spruce outside the window

and the sunlight, broken and recombined

by the blinds, is a Sunday prayer for physicists.

I count the seconds, switch the legs. The cup

beside me is nearly empty. It’s summertime.

Our son runs down the hall again,

and this time, his sister follows him.

One of them is laughing hard. I know,

from experience, how fragile it is.

The house and I hold our breath.

And when I switch the fan to high,

closing my eyes to extinguish the light,

filtering thoughts from my mind like
the leaves left behind, a bittersweet

note seeps in haphazardly,

unbidden, and swamps the place--

call it the sunlight, the dust it keeps,

the book of poems so good they bleed,

children zig-zagging between laughter
and sobs, the shadow that falls
when you stand outside that to which
you most belong.

And so I rise to fetch my notebook,

awake, awake, awake

Alive.

The Tavernier Stones: Amazon Bestseller

2011-07-23T14:02:00.003-04:00

It's not every day that a friend's book is #3 #2 on the Amazon Mystery Bestseller list.

After a year on the shelves, and some very positive press, Stephen Parrish's treasure hunt adventure novel has skyrocketed to the top of the charts.

I want to see it go all the way to #1. (ETA: It made it! Now onward to Top 10 Overall!)

Here's the deal: the book's Kindle price has been lowered to 99 cents. You can choose to buy it for your Kindle OR you can download (free & easy) the Kindle app for your PC or Mac and get the book that way (also for $.99).

I bought the book way-back-when for $13 and it was worth every penny then. So this new price is an amazing bargain.

However. Steve, being the generous guy he is, will BUY a review copy of the Kindle version for you, if you leave your email address in the comments. You MUST, however, actually download the book in order for it to count towards sales.

I've talked about The Tavernier Stones on this blog before. Steve has been actively promoting the book for over a year, in addition to supporting his friends' books and quietly critiquing and reviewing their work.

You know what they say about karma?

Nobody deserves this more. Feel free to post a link on your blogs or FB, etc.

Let's help it go to #1!

Cave

2011-05-08T15:39:00.002-04:00

(A Chauvet-Pont-d'Arc Cave panel, ca. 30,000 years old)

I have never seen anything
more pregnant of Man
than the riderless horses
etched in black
on the warm-blooded wall
of a cave in France

Staggered by design
and baptized in time,
one's mouth pried open
as if to say:

You are a knot
in the line,
my flickering friend,
a torch's wick,
the scattered scent,
an apocalypse of hooves
passing over the bridge

Whose echo
is written
in the silence
we grip

Bound for Glory: Jonathan Franzen on David Foster Wallace

2011-04-19T11:14:00.007-04:00

I'll admit it: I am endlessly fascinated by the late David Foster Wallace. I am also a big fan of Jonathan Franzen's work, including his most recent novel, Freedom.

So imagine my excitement when I opened the latest edition of The New Yorker and discovered Franzen's article, "Farther Away," which recounts his trip to the archipelago that inspired Daniel Defoe's famous novel, Robinson Crusoe, a bruising, beautiful wilderness where Franzen hoped to reclaim some measure of solitude after the post-Freedom juggernaut, carve out a space to grieve his dead friend, and ruminate on the novel's evolution from a totem of human individuality to the cultural enabler of our present-day addiction to entertainment.

It was also, as it turns out, a place where he could sift through the metaphorical ashes of his old friend (in addition to scattering some real ones), before letting the winds of the South Pacific blow them all the way back to the offices of The New Yorker.

But let me back up. Did I mention that Franzen is a genius? How brilliantly he connects the dots of any piece, be it essay or fiction? At times, the guy makes me smack my lips with envy. It's no wonder that he and Wallace were close: they must have felt understood by one another in a way others could not hope to try. As literary authors, both had achieved a level of mind-boggling fame and acclaim, and both were trying to reflect a staggering scope of reality in their work: Franzen through the more conventional route, with psychologically sticky characters serving as the gatekeepers to human truths (and maybe a sliver of redemption), and Wallace as the radical, seeking to reflect our perception of reality, with all of its convolutions, distortions, and infinite boredoms. (Admission: I am not as well versed in Wallace's work as I should be; Franzen would likely view me as being part of the cult of celebrity grown up after Wallace's death, a charge which holds some merit.)

David Foster Wallace hanged himself in September of 2008. He'd gone off his anti-depressant the year before, tried other meds, went back to the old reliable, and found that it no longer worked for him. His wife discovered him in their home. I cannot think of a more horrifying wound to inflict on a person you love, one more at odds with the many documented and luminous acts of compassion he practiced in small settings like AA meetings and on larger stages like Kenyon College's Commencement, where he argued that self-awareness is the sacred work--yes, work--one must perform to overcome the smallnesses of our autopilot narcissism. And yet, he was sick and self-loathing enough to destroy himself in the most sacred space of all, a home. Those two realities cannot be easily reconciled, certainly not by me, nor by his widow, Karen Green (who says simply, and with a touching clarity, about that day in September: "It was a day in his life, and it was a day in mine.")

So what does Jonathan Franzen do? He summons all the psychological acuity he's so well regarded for to perform an impressive, if fairly lacerating, autopsy of his old friend.

He begins, though, by saying many nice things. It is evident he cared deeply for Wallace, that he admired his work enormously. It is also acknowledged that they enjoyed a rivalry of sorts, a very male competition that likely made the both of them better writers. For my part, I find it entirely understandable that Franzen feels angry at Wallace, and more isolated than ever, after leaving him to bear the mantle of Literary Legend alone. But beneath all of that--I most sympathize with him for not having Wallace around when he just wants to pick up the telephone and talk, be it about Wallace's dogs, Franzen's birds, or yes, whether Robinson Crusoe ushered in the age of fictional verisimilitude or not (I, alas, must simply take Franzen's word on this). Anyone who's been scarred by suicide understands this wrenching sense of injustice and betrayal. The person we loved did not love us enough to stick around. They left us memories, but slashed the darkest of wormholes towards returning to them.

My husband's cousin--who was more like a brother to him--killed himself four days after Wallace did. Their deaths are inexorably linked in our minds, which likely goes a long way toward explaining why this piece touched a nerve with me. Something in me still shudders when recalling Paul's face and voice from that day. In the weeks that followed, we recycled the "why?" questions over and over again, until they finally exhausted themselves in a heap of cinders. It's futile to ask the question, when the answer is so irrational. And so permanent. At some point, you have to bury the need to know under the love you felt for the person, and get on with the business of living. The only truth worth arriving at is: it wasn't really about me. And so, being left behind means letting go of your own narcissism to grant someone the unknowable terrain of their pain and the freedom to say goodbye.

From this quote I've pulled regarding Wallace's motivation in killing himself, I don't think Franzen is there yet:

I imagine the side of David that advocated going the Kurt Cobain route speaking in the seductively reasonable voice of the devil in "The Screwtape Letters," which was one of David's favorite books, and pointing out that death by his own hand would simultaneously satisfy his loathsome hunger for career advantage and, because it would represent a capitulation to the side of himself that his embattled better side perceived as evil, further confirm the justice of his death sentence.

Yes, you can imagine that. Funny how the "imagine" part dissolves under the stuff that follows. The stuff about your friend killing himself to remain the alpha dog.

He dangles this information for us, too: that instead of the suicide being an act of reckless impulsivity, Wallace made four "practical plans" for it in the summer before his death. Ever the discriminating novelist, Franzen leaves it for the reader to fill in the specifics of these mysterious "plans." The effect is twofold: his superior knowledge of the situation cements his standing as an intimate to Wallace and his widow (there were four plans: what a very specific number), while his refusal to say what these plans were might be smoothly interpreted as one friend respecting the privacy of another.

This would be more believable if he hadn't spent a couple pages speculating--by way of literary analysis and personal inference--about that friend's curdled state of mind, under the buttery, almost self-congratulatory mantle of "setting the record straight." After all, Franzen and Wallace weren't about illusions, but the reality of what those illusions mask. What is friendship, when Truth is imperative? And who better to question Wallace's increasing personal canonization in literary circles than a trusted friend. He knew him as well as anyone, after all.

Yet I wonder if it didn't occur to Franzen, while writing this, how often his own fictional characters conceal themselves, especially from the people they love most. What a shifty prey one's personal truth becomes, hanging out in the shadows, massaging our thoughts and actions from the inside out while we fumble for our social footing. What utter hubris to think you can dissect someone's torment and hold Truth aloft in your hand like a trophy you've won.

(As an aside, Franzen goes to weirdly self-conscious lengths to shield his own life and privacy in this article. When referencing his girlfriend, writer Kathryn Chektovich, he calls her "the California woman I live with." Huh? Why all the awkwardness, when this is a well documented relationship of many years? Franzen's island is carefully crafted and only sparingly shared; his friend's island, once abandoned, is there for the excavating.)

When Franzen finally tosses a portion of Wallace's ashes off the cliffs of Crusoe's island, he writes, "I felt done with anger, merely bereft, and done with islands, too." But no, he went on to write about it, in a magazine read by millions. And when push comes to shove, this strikes me as just being not a very nice thing to do.

Grief is ugly and real--and all too gut-wrenchingly universal--but grief is also infinitely unique and personal. By all means, channel that grief into your art, let it find some soil to take root--becoming the sleight-of-hand verisimilitude only your experiences could grow--but let the dead friend remain your friend; nothing more or less. Don't go adding to the cult of celebrity you supposedly abhor. Don't go attaching yourself to it. There is no last word to get in. The man is not here to respond. And he never can.

His new novel is here, however. David Foster Wallace's The Pale King--a Literary Event even in its unfinished state--was published last week. The same week that Jonathan Franzen's article was printed in The New Yorker.

Funny timing, yeah? Man escapes the promotional limelight of his own book to travel to a remote, deserted island with the ashes of his friend, only to come back and make himself part of the friend's story and limelight. You couldn't write this stuff.

Okay, here's the thing: I know I'm being harsher on Franzen than I have any real right to be. I didn't throw down the article in frustration; I read it quickly through to the end. Voraciously, even. And I'm performing my own lengthy postmortem on it here. I guess if grief is truly personal, then it has an infinite number of incarnations. Who am I to say he's doing it wrong?

All I know is that after reading the article, I felt a little compromised and disgusted with myself. Franzen talks a lot about our culture's saturation in entertainment and The Self, and how entwined those two things have become, thanks to the internet. How is publishing such a sensational article in The New Yorker--an article you could only read on-line by "liking" The New Yorker fan page on Facebook--any different, when push comes to shove? I get the feeling Franzen wants to feel superior to all of that popular nonsense, when really, he's slumming like the rest of us.

Ultimately, I suppose, the article just struck me as being unworthy of Franzen's work, which I truly love, and more importantly, unworthy of a friendship that didn't need to be written, because it was lived. I'd like to believe that some kind of loyalty endures, even after the fact. That we let go because we have to, but that we keep the most precious parts of the people we loved. On an island so remote, yet sacred, that no one else can fully tread there.

One of my favorite quotes is this gem from John Keats: "I am certain of nothing but the holiness of the heart's affections and the truth of imagination."

Maybe we all should endeavor, through self awareness and humility, not to overly confuse the two.

Little Windows

2011-03-27T22:45:00.007-04:00

("Wind from the Sea" by Andrew Wyeth)

My kids and I have been watching The College of William & Mary’s Bald Eagle Cam pretty enthusiastically throughout the day. I keep the tab open on my browser and bounce over whenever I want to see what Mom and the three eaglets are up to in their nest. Our daughter watched the streaming video for an hour straight this afternoon. She was hoping to witness the mother’s moment of flight. She asked me where those wings would take her, and I told her we wouldn’t be able to see. But we knew the eaglets had to stick by our sides, even if they had not a lick of awareness that we had sides to stick to.

Not to go too far with all this, but there is something comforting in this notion. How we feel protective and almost prideful of the little guys, and how they, in turn, give us their company. I was a biology major in college. I worked at a zoo, and I fed dead chicks to bald eagles at the Cleveland Museum of Natural History's wildlife sanctuary. I thought those days were behind me. Yet this camera offers me a perspective on reality I would never be able to enjoy if someone hadn’t taken the trouble to stick it up there. It’s the wild world, in my lap. And the intimacy of it is quietly breathtaking.

All these little windows become a part of the houses inside our heads. We peer out, we turn back in, because there's stuff to do or it's just too dark to look any longer. But we remember the folds of the landscapes, and we color in the gaps and shadows. And in doing so, we elevate sight into vision.

Writing and blogging are like this, too.

We are richer for the looking. How else could my daughter have been rewarded for her patience than in seeing another bald eagle swoop into frame after 45 minutes? Turns out, Papa is just as dedicated a parent as Mama. And how else could one better grasp the scope of life on this planet of ours--with all its devotion, sacrifices and cruelty--than by watching him tear the flesh off a waterfowl for his wide-mouthed progeny?

It's nighttime, and the camera's gone dark for now. But I'll be happy to pull up a chair tomorrow. Turns out, this seat's always warm.

Making Old New Again

2011-01-03T13:24:00.001-05:00

Over the last three years, I've made it a tradition to post a New Year's story. I intended to post one this year--recently beginning a vignette with this goal in mind--only to discover that I didn't have the heart to complete it.

I've been feeling this a lot lately, regarding writing. And, strangely enough, I'm not feeling it as a negative development. I like writing; I mean to keep at it. But I cannot stake my happiness on the fickle waves of inspiration and word count. Or on validation's thin ice. I've recently been experiencing a more precious, if less exercised, peace of mind. I'm knee-deep in novels again, and reading as much poetry as I can get my hands on, thanks to a Christmas bounty from my husband. Motherhood feels more than ever like a gift to me, in spite of the daily trials. I've even organized the house a bit. And while it may be argued that contentment is the death knell of creativity, I prefer to think of it as a slow drip of sustenance into the overly heated pot. Quiet minds need not be still; they run true and deep enough.

I wrote Plum Blossoms in Paris in a bit of a bubble. I didn't share that novel with others for quite some time. I understand that this insulation is anathema to most contemporary writers' processes. And I can see how that give-and-take with readers and other writers secures their larger goals. Yet, even while I've been an obliging beta-reader for many, a purity of vision is still, for me, an essential part of a writer's worth and self-expression. It's what separates art from craft. That time of my life was a sacred education.

I've been sheepish to argue this perspective in the past. I recognize it sounds self-aggrandizing and preachy. But I want to know when I put something out there that, in spite of its influences--and with all of its summits and fault lines--it's still mine at the end of the day. That's my true goal now, in lieu of more ambitious, commercial aims. And that old bubble feels worth slipping into again. For all that I've gained since Murmurs' launch in 2007, I've lost some of those sweet and honest pleasures. I don't write as much for the characters anymore; I write with the concurrent hope of eliciting a reaction. I'm sure that this is normal--we all like to be petted and praised. But I can't help but wonder where it leads. Or maybe I know too well.

My little book's publication was a thrill, if also a disappointment, as most realized dreams turn out to be. I found myself caring too much what people thought of it...or what they thought of me. I experienced the discomfiting contradiction of not wanting people to read what I'd worked so hard to put out--going so far as to apologize for its relative immaturity--and yet feeling hurt when many who mattered to me chose not to read the book. I checked my Amazon sales rank with the frequency of a lab rat pushing for its pellet. I promoted myself, with the helpful generosity of so many of you, like a dutiful, if doubting, author. Meanwhile, my ego felt a kid run amok, constantly hunting for the next scrap of validation, the next great, or small, distraction.

Which brings me to Facebook and Twitter. Man, those places can be easy and fun. Even when not actively participating, the passive voyeurism is delicious. I have frittered away countless hours checking people's tweets and status updates. I've free-stroked to the flow of banter, drama and good cheer. Not being an extravert, social media feels like a safe harbor for connecting with people, while still maintaining that desired distance. But I also firmly believe that--for me again--these places can dilute my focus on work and family, priming that age-old restlessness for instant gratification and attention. Did someone re-tweet my little poem? Was that last comment clever enough? Embarrassing to admit--well, sure--but true. If I had a greater talent for self-discipline and moderation, I'm sure it would be a different story. As it is, I don't want to have something cute my kid says immediately triggering the thought: is this Facebook-worthy?

I don't know. Maybe the greatest act of narcissism is to take yourself too seriously. To endlessly dissect and confess these motivations and actions, in the belief that there's some future reward for self-awareness, regret, and its more mature sister: growth. I'm ridiculously lucky to be able to wrestle over such airy matters. And the truth is, I'm far from feeling like I have it all figured out. These qualms have been with me for some time, but they are mine alone. I would not presume to know which fuels propel others' dreams and happinesses. So many of you are brilliant and funny and good. If I had my way, you'd all be published or feted, the world taking proper note of your talent, vision and work. I've smiled at your skill and I've prized your friendships. I'm glad you're out there.

So. The practical outcome of all this rambling is that I'm detaching myself from the computer in some meaningful ways. I'm deactivating my Facebook account (not deleting it; let's not get crazy here), ignoring Twitter and Google Reader, and putting the much-neglected blog on indefinite hiatus. I know--big whoop, right? This kind of proclamation has become a common, and often comically short-lived, refrain as people struggle to find the right balance between an internet life and, you know, that other one. Recording it here is really for my benefit. It's the permission slip for a solitary field trip. And it's the click of the door behind me, so that I might really hear and mind it.

In spite of my New Year's tradition, I've never held much stock in making resolutions. To me, the start of a new year feels like an artificial line in the sand. Change and evolution happen through an accident of steps and missteps, and rarely with any single, mythic leap of faith. But it is the new year. And right now, I have a lot of faith. In my family, in my deep gratitude for our good fortune, and in the patience to pursue happiness in a sustainable way I might also be proud of.

Happy New Year. I hope 2011 is just what you make of it.

Relative-ity

2010-12-07T11:10:00.004-05:00

("Mother and Daughter"--
by Natalia Tejera)

My daughter cannot play the piano
the way that your daughter plays one.

At seven years old, her taste in clothes
aren't about to win her any fashion raves.

Her performance on the soccer field?
I’ll let you know, soon as she kicks the thing.

And if training wheels are any tell,
don’t bet on my daughter to be first on Mars.

Truth be told, I am not convinced that she
could explain to you what gravity is.

The figures she paints often hang about in space,
the heart on Dad’s chest as big as his face.

And yet--I hope you will not draw from this
that she's a star's breath less than luminous.

For when she smiles,
the world grows a little lighter.
And when my daughter's laughing,
I know why we're here.

Snapshots

2010-10-17T21:48:00.001-04:00

A road bends more

with autumn days,

its apron bowed

under paint shavings

and whittled gold.

A fence does not convince;

eyes have a way

of poking through

to say, "Hello!"

(or "Neigh, not you.")

The best things come

with a blur of intent,

too sweet to stick;

as I pin you

between wind and kiss.

These are the jewels

I'd take for a crown

if you were the boy

and I was a girl

and the woods hid trolls.

That we might rest

with a comfort of hands

and dangling feet

as the hinges squeak

and time sits down.

Chrome

2010-09-27T09:15:00.003-04:00

I’d like to be
that bit of sun
racing between
reciprocating trees
to sluice your eye from
the grade of the road

Slip-sliding between
evergreen blinds
on a late afternoon drive
the moon but a glimmer
in the pink of
your mirror

With knuckles curled
round ten and two,
Rickenbackers chiming
a well-traveled tune,
as you squeeze
some more lead
from the end
of your day

Just that bit of chrome
to bounce off
the shield.

Locks of Love

2010-09-09T14:48:00.002-04:00

I got a haircut today. So this hair is now headed to Locks of Love, an organization whose purpose is as follows:

Our mission is to return a sense of self, confidence and normalcy to children suffering from hair loss by utilizing donated ponytails to provide the highest quality hair prosthetics to financially disadvantaged children. The children receive hair prostheses free of charge or on a sliding scale, based on financial need.

If you're thinking about donating hair, it needs to be at least 10 inches long. Granted, this will take many months to grow out. But here's a photo gallery of some recipients (Locks of Love doesn't allow these photos to be reproduced elsewhere) to keep you motivated in the meantime.

Several ponytails are required to make a child's hairpiece. Normally, these hairpieces will retail for $3500-$6000, so you can see how financially daunting this would be for most families, without some help. Locks of Love accepts financial contributions, too.

So. Giving makes me feel good; having hair makes a child feel strong and confident. Pretty much a win-win situation, wouldn't you say?

(Oh, and most of their donations come from other children. Just something to think about regarding your kids/grandkids, too.)

(Because they asked me to.)

Labor Way

2010-09-05T22:12:00.006-04:00

For those of you who stopped by before, thanks for reading and commenting. I decided to delete that post because it didn't sit right with me.

--

Need a book to believe in? Boy, have I got the one for you. Jonathan Franzen’s Freedom is a novel for the ages. The one phrase that keeps leaping to mind is Dave Eggers’ tongue-in-cheek title, A Heartbreaking Work of Staggering Genius. But without the irony.

Franzen’s writing effortlessly illuminates this cross-generational story of familial break-up and fragile redemption, while the characters—real, flawed, heartbreakingly human—emerge in full brilliance. His canvas is large, and his stroke is sure. I didn't read this book; I lived it.

An Intangible Authenticity

2010-08-17T23:06:00.002-04:00

The blog tour is back! Just when you all were getting worried that I was tired of talking about my book.

Psh. Miles to go, people. In truth, I just needed a little breather.

But I'm very happy that Abhisek Mohanty stepped forward and offered me a guest slot on his blog, The Intangible but Significant Part of Me. I don't know Abhi that well, but he was so friendly and enthusiastic in his email that I immediately felt welcomed and at ease. I like people who embrace life and radiate a positive spirit. My impression is that Abhi does both.

Since Abhi's blog motto is "Silence Kills, Speak up," I thought his place was the perfect venue to write a piece about voice and authenticity. And I gotta say--I really enjoyed writing this one. So I hope you'll check it out.

Big thanks to my host for stepping up! And for reaching out. I'm glad to have made a new friend.

If you'd also like to speak, step, or reach out, in order to interview me, review the book, or offer me a guest post slot, please feel free to email me at Sarah.Hina@gmail.com. I really appreciate every gesture of support I've received so far. Thanks, guys.

----

Other stops on my Meet Me In Paris Blog Tour: Travis Erwin • Aniket's Plum Blossom Flash Fiction contest • 25 Questions for Author Sarah Hina • Author Spotlight 7SS with Aerin-Bender Stone • Jaye Wells • Poem at The Walking Man's • Poem Blossoms at Joaquin Carvel's

Plum Blossoms excerpt read aloud by me.

Buy Plum Blossoms in Paris • Amazon • Barnes & Noble • Flipkart • Chapters • Borders • Your Local Independent Bookstore • Powell's Books • Books-A-Million

Blowing My Whistle

2010-08-13T11:35:00.002-04:00

(Photo Credit: Kirti Manian)

First, I posted a new story, "Tuesday," over at Aniket's Flash Fiction site. This photo prompt only has two more days to go, folks, before the train pulls out of the station. So have a look and be inspired! Or wait until the next train. Either way, I've been thrilled to see so many people register as authors over there. Aniket's building a wonderful community.

My blog tour has been a little derailed, but I'm eager to get back on track. (Sorry--the metaphor made me do it.) If anyone would still like to interview me, or offer me his/her blog for a guest post, I'll be your best friend. Or you could choose to review Plum Blossoms in Paris. In which case, I'll be your BFF.

My email address is Sarah.Hina@gmail.com. Thanks, guys.

Speaking of reviews....here comes the ~~tooting my horn~~ blowing my own whistle part. Forgive me, but you're only a debut author once, right? So here's a brief rundown of what some obviously brilliant people are saying about the book:

“Rich in fascinating details about the art and culture of Paris, Hina’s debut novel is a terrific literary love letter to the City of Light . . . The writing itself is imbued with a stylish sense of wit.”

~ John Charles, Booklist Reviews

"Readers will be 'pulled' into this book almost immediately. The author has done a first-rate job with her descriptive passages . . . After this one, folks, you'll want to run--not walk--to the first available ticket agent and 'disappear' into the sumptuous Parisian world."

~ Amy, Night Owl Romance

"I loved this book. It's very witty. Very smart, yet carefree and adventurous as well." (Rating: 5 out of 5 apples)

~ Debbie Lester, Debbie's Book Bag

In truth, it's nice to have people say nice things. But more than anything?

It's a relief.

The White Sheet

2010-08-10T22:46:00.004-04:00

(Venus by Henri Matisse)

He touches her through a white sheet.

“Your shoulder.”

“Yes.”

The sheet hangs between them.

“And wrist.”

“Yes.”

There is the illusion of warmth when her flesh touches the sheet and the sheet touches him.

“Your ear.”

“My ear.”

The sheet is a metaphor.

“Your neck.”

“My neck.”

The sheet is real.

“Your pulse.”

“So fast.”

She cannot see him, either, of course. But she understands those fingers. How they search, then retreat. How they play upon her laughter. How they see her more clearly than eyes ever could.

What they skirt.

“Your knee.”

“My knee.”

“Your . . . ”

“Thigh.”

She lists toward him. Begins to sink to her knees. He pulls his hand away.

But soon falls to a floor.

His breath is hot on her face. The molecules of his breath, passing through microscopic pores, are hot on her face. She presses her cheek against the division.

He does the same.

“How long?”

She can feel the muscles work the words.

“Until?”

“This thing comes down.”

She turns her face. A few degrees.

“I don’t think it can.”

He turns his face.

“Your—”

“My—”

What passes for lips might be a kiss. For a moment, she believes it to be.

Until she pulls away and sees her lipstick. The red impression. Of an unwritten story.

They rise to their feet.

“Your shoulder.”

“My shoulder.”

She touches him through a white sheet.

“And wrist.”

The sheet hangs between them.

“Yes.”

Birth Days

2010-08-06T14:00:00.008-04:00

When he was young, he thought it was bound to happen.

When he was older, he felt that it never would happen.

The space in between is what they call growth, or maturing. Or coming to terms with the curve of reality.

But all that really means is you're closer to dying.

Believing is a brittle bone. Exercise it daily. Suck hard from the marrow. Bend it to breaking.

We Interrupt This Blog Tour . . .

2010-08-02T07:27:00.001-04:00

. . . for something important. Here's an announcement from author Erica Orloff:

In this little corner of the blogworld, most of us are book lovers. Book lovers and writers, people who say, "I've been writing stories since I could hold a pen," or "I was the kid holding the flashlight under the covers and reading past bedtime." In this little corner of the blogworld, we've also watched out for our own.

Merry Monteleone (Mom and More) and her family were in the midst of raging flood waters in Westchester that happened when heavy rains hit Chicago. The contents of the downstairs of her house were lost (it's been gutted), and though it's just "stuff" (lives were lost in the flooding), most of us can imagine how it would feel to watch photo albums and meaningful memories wrapped up in the "stuff" of our families . . . be carried off.

While big "stuff" can be replaced with insurance, Merry lost all her books, and a group of us decided to replace them--with Amazon gift cards, with books, with signed copies of books, with ARCs. We want to see the blogosphere flood her mailbox with good wishes and replace her library. If you love books and your TBR pile is as tall as you are, you know what they mean to her.

What can you do? Send books! Send Amazon cards! Reach out to your favorite authors and ask them to send her a signed copy! For her address or more information, contact: erica@ericaorloff.com

She has three children middle school and younger. Their books were in their bedrooms and most survived, but it would be great to get some books just for them, too!

Do something nice today. It will make you feel good.

Namaste!

Poem Blossoms at His Place

2010-07-29T15:36:00.001-04:00

Why the different look? Because I've got a guest poem at Lyrics and Maladies, that's why. And today, I'm swinging with Bootsy and Macy, as we light up the Eiffel Tower with--what else?--an accordion song.

But first, let me acknowledge something--I feel a little guilty. See, Joaquin Carvel posts a new poem every Thursday. And he has a very devoted following of readers, including myself, who looks forward to Thursdays for this reason. This is not hyperbole. It's just the way things are. Joaquin is a poet of such considerable talent, of such rare, intuitive lyricism, that I've often thought it unfair that so few people have the chance to read his work. So if any good can come from my usurping his place for a week, I hope it's to lead some of you to his blog for the very first time. Stay awhile, and scroll down the page. You will not regret it. Of that I am certain (and I'm never certain).

Okay. Again, if anyone else would like to interview me, let me guest post on your blog, review the book, or play with my postcard, send me an email at Sarah.Hina AT gmail.com. Thanks.

Other stops on my Meet Me In Paris Blog Tour: Travis Erwin • Aniket's Plum Blossom Flash Fiction contest • 25 Questions for Author Sarah Hina • Author Spotlight 7SS with Aerin-Bender Stone • Jaye Wells

Buy Plum Blossoms in Paris • Amazon • Barnes & Noble • Chapters • Borders • Your Local Independent Bookstore • Powell's Books • Books-A-Million

Sick Poetry and a Review

2010-07-28T10:10:00.001-04:00

I've been sick lately. How sick? Just your common head cold, with all the banal misery that entails. But throw in the stickiness of summer, and it feels, well, a good bit sickier.

Not that a little phlegm is enough to stop my quest for world publishing domination, mind you. Or even to keep me from writing poetry. Which is what I'm doing this week on two different blogs. First up is today's poem, Les Misérables, over at The Walking Man, which is run by Mark Durfee, a man who writes what he sees and from the strength of a heart he cannot hide. While tomorrow I'll be at--

Well, no use in spilling all them beans.

I've also got a review up today over at Stephen Parrish's. And a very nice review it is. In fact, I'm so pleased with it, I'm thinking about having it tattooed on my forehead. Or at the very least, this pull quote, "The prose is stylish, sensitive, and refined, the result of a natural born poet tackling a larger canvas. Plum Blossoms demands a second reading merely for the beauty of its language. The promise of the author's next novel, and writing career, is high."

Thanks, Steve. And Mark. I'm deeply grateful to both of you. And that's not just the Nyquil talking.

Remember, if you want to review the book like Steve, have me guest post like Mark, or interview me, then shoot me an email at Sarah.Hina AT gmail.com. I look forward to it.

Shouts and Murmurs

2010-07-22T11:23:00.001-04:00

Today I'm guest-posting at Jaye Wells' place about what blogging means to me. Included in the post is the very first vignette I wrote for Murmurs. And reading it again, together with the comments it received, put a little lump in my throat.

See, posting at Jaye's is a little like a blogging high-school reunion for me. Although, if it were truly that, I'd have to go back to her original home, Jaye's Blahg.

But there is good reason for Jaye to have new and fancier digs. She has become the most successful of my writer friends, with her newest release, The Mage in Black--the second book in her crackling, Sabina Kane vampire series--hitting shelves this past April to great reviews and (from my nosy monitoring of her Amazon rank) great sales, too.

And I can say this--nobody deserves success more. Jaye's wit, intelligence, and work ethic have always left me feeling a bit like a high school freshman who stares with awe at the senior who has it all together. She alone has made my Twitter membership worth it.

And I'm very honored to stand beside her today. Thanks, Jaye.

You, too, can make me cry! Yes, you! Just shoot me an email at Sarah.Hina AT gmail.com, if you'd like to interview me, offer a guest post slot on your blog, or review the book. I promise to have tissues ready. Sniff.

Other stops on my Meet Me In Paris Blog Tour: Travis Erwin • Aniket's Plum Blossom Flash Fiction contest • 25 Questions for Author Sarah Hina • Author Spotlight 7SS with Aerin-Bender Stone

She reads! She reads! Plum Blossoms excerpt read aloud.

Buy Plum Blossoms in Paris • Amazon • Barnes & Noble • Chapters • Borders • Your Local Independent Bookstore • Powell's Books • Books-A-Million

Interview with Aerin Bender-Stone

2010-07-21T10:24:00.001-04:00

Today I'm in the hot seat for Aerin Bender-Stone's "7 Step Scoop" interview at In Search of Giants. In our discussion, I confess to a pretty serious Coke habit, reveal my own pathetic history of being dumped via email, and admit to a passionate, Parisian affair with this mystery man:

I'm pretty sure author-dom is turning me into an incurable liar. In addition to all the raging narcissism, I give myself three months before the first nervous breakdown. Exxxcellent.

But seriously, check out the interview. Aerin is one of those friends who will step up for you time and time again, and in truly unforgettable fashion. I first met her through a Clarity of Night contest, where her entries consistently ranked among my favorites (no pressure or anything this time around, Aerin). Intelligent, yet always deeply felt, her work is instantly recognizable to me and always touches the right nerve. I'd also highly recommend ordering a copy of get born magazine's current Summer issue, where Aerin writes in stark and moving terms about her son's autism.

So come on by! And just so you know, my blog-tour dance card is still open! So if, like Aerin, you'd like to interview me, review the book, or offer me a guest post slot on your blog, get your back off that wall, and give this a whirl. I promise--I won't even step on your toes. Much.

Other stops on my Meet Me In Paris Blog Tour: Travis Erwin • Aniket's Plum Blossom Flash Fiction contest • 25 Questions for Author Sarah Hina

She can read! She can read! Plum Blossoms excerpt read aloud.

Buy Plum Blossoms in Paris • Amazon • Barnes & Noble • Chapters • Borders • Your Local Independent Bookstore • Powell's Books • Books-A-Million

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I will be choosing the winners of Aniket's Plum Blossoms flash fiction contest on Friday, July 23rd! I was very pleased with the number of entries and the quality of the work. So stay tuned for the big announcement!!

It's My Party...

2010-07-16T10:28:00.002-04:00

....and I'll weep if I want to.

Aerin Bender-Stone and Stephen Parrish are throwing me a launch party today, for the publication of Plum Blossoms in Paris. They've put out the candles, poured some wine, and have gathered all my friends (and some famous faces) to celebrate this milestone in my life. It's difficult for me to come up with the words to thank them for all they've done on my behalf (this is the tip of the iceberg), so I'll just say this:

Pee-Wee? Seriously?

Thanks, guys. You are both amazing writers, but your talents for friendship--and the size of your hearts--are what impresses most.

Certainly not your taste in men.

(Can I pay them to stay away?)

---

Buy Plum Blossoms in Paris • Amazon • Barnes & Noble • Chapters • Borders • Your Local Independent Bookstore • Powell's Books • Books-A-Million

Other stops on my Meet Me In Paris Blog Tour: Travis Erwin • Aniket's Plum Blossom Flash Fiction contest • 25 Questions for Author Sarah HIna

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If anyone wants to offer me a guest post slot on my blog tour, interview me, or review the book, shoot me an email at Sarah.Hina AT gmail.com.

People aren't sick enough of me yet. With your help, we'll get 'em there.