tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-68632715051612730732024-03-12T22:51:18.763-04:00The Inkpen AuthoressRachel and Sarahhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01932147946040594451noreply@blogger.comBlogger771125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6863271505161273073.post-40795141949763914302016-12-02T11:00:00.000-05:002016-12-02T11:00:00.153-05:00Release Day! Once: Six Historically Inspired Fairytales<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<br />
And HERE IT IS. <i>Once: Six Historically Inspired Fairytales</i> is finally released into the real world! Please, please read it and tell us how you like it! The reviews have been coming in<a href="https://www.goodreads.com/book/show/32702848-once"> on Goodreads</a> and every time a new one comes out I feel a little thrill of parentship over this collection my author friends and I have been compiling since the summer. It doesn't matter whether the review is favorable or not, I just love to know that the stories are not sitting in the deadspace of Microsoft Word. Give 'em air, friends. Give 'em air! To celebrate, <a href="http://www.vintagenovels.com/2016/11/its-here-once-six-historically-inspired.html">Suzannah Rowntree</a>, Elisabeth Foley, J.Grace Pennington, Emily Ann Putzke,<a href="http://haydenwand.blogspot.com/2016/12/once-release-excerpt.html"> Hayden Wand</a>, and I are sharing excerpts of our particular stories. So here, friends, is a scene pulled from my contribution: <i>She But Sleepeth</i>. Read a bit of it here, then scurry off to Amazon to buy your copy and read the rest! This scene occurs just hours after the main character, a modern set-designer, stumbles through a staircase into Romanian history...<br />
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(from<i> She But Sleepeth</i> by Rachel Heffington)</div>
<br />
When their fruit had been eaten and coffee sipped, the queen excused herself.<br />
<br />
“Come to me soon, Mariechen. Your father would speak with you.” She rested her gentle hand on Maria's shoulder in passing.<br />
<br />
Supper began to sit unsafely in Maria's stomach at the thought of being left alone with that sober, wood-faced king. He was her father but when had he yet showed the slightest warmth or love for her? Was he angry at her return? Did he hate the sight of her? Those years in foster-care chalked a panicked, inaccurate score in the sudden blank of Maria's thoughts: not smart enough, not pretty enough, not young enough, not old enough. People always had a reason you were not enough to let you stay. Perhaps her father, even now, would not want or allow her to stay.<br />
<br />
The queen's footsteps pattered away toward the sanctuary of her colored-glass music-room. Maria wanted to follow her instead of remaining here with a man no gladder in face than the peculiar Eastern rooms were in decoration, but he was her father and, she mused, her king.<br />
<br />
Many long, unripe moments of silence. Maria kept her eyes on the empty table and waited.<br />
<br />
“Itty, my...my child.”<br />
<br />
Were those...tears in his voice? Maria's eyes snapped to the king's countenance. Moisture gleamed in the corners of his eyes. Candlelight sparked on something wet in his beard. Ioan, as usual, kept to his own business across the table. His long, waxen hands fingered the stem of his glass and his lips spread in that non-smile.<br />
<br />
King Carol rubbed his thumb against his forefinger. His eyes spoke things she didn't want to guess at, they were so bare and heavy. “Come here, child.”<br />
<br />
She hesitated a moment, then scooted back from the table and came to him, hands folded in her skirts. Her father put a hand to her cheek. Metal kiss from his signet ring, trembling flesh eager, yet cool against her face. She hardly dared to do so, but Maria raised a hand and tentatively covered her father's with it.<br />
<br />
“Doamne, I've missed you,” the king softly swore.<br />
<br />
It was just a flash of a moment, hardly seen before he shuttered up again behind his unfathomable face. But Maria's heart lurched happily as she nestled her hand again in her voluminous skirts. No one had ever spoken to her in that intense, immediate way. Somehow it reminded her of Heath – the same slow, slumbering fire unleashed all at once before growling back to sleep.<br />
<br />
“I am so pleased to have you back, Maria,” her father continued. “I am not a man of gentle or numerous words, but that does not mean I lack love for you. I love quietly, by my loyal service and long peace. This is something which confuses your mother.”<br />
<br />
“She thinks you do not love her?” The moment Maria said it, she regretted having asked so personal a question of a man who had already bent knee before her.<br />
<br />
But the king only stood and managed a smile which wobbled on one side from lack of use. Maria thought it a darling expression, and her heart warmed even as he bade her goodnight and requested Ioan escort her to her mother, the queen.<br />
<br />
Presently, Ioan stood and slid to her side. Everything about him chilled Maria but even she could not deny his beauty. He seemed like a white moth to her, ever fluttering in darkness, flirting with the light. What harm could he do her? If her father trusted the man he must not be a bad sort. Not likely he could have helped being born with a bloodless face and would she hate him for that?<br />
<br />
Ioan bowed and crooked his arm. “Will you come, princess?”<br />
<br />
“Sure.” She slid her arm into his.<br />
<br />
He pressed her against his side as they exited the dining room and led a leisurely pace down the hall. When they reached the great hall, Maria thought her arm had spent long enough in the secretary's possession. She extracted herself and clasped her hands behind her back.<br />
<br />
“It's a beautiful night,” she remarked. “Why don't they roll back the ceiling?”<br />
<br />
Ioan pinched off a smile for her. “If Your Highness wishes it, I am sure an exhibition of that wonder can be arranged, though it is generally kept for parties and guests of state.”<br />
<br />
Leave it to that bleached, brittle man to make her feel like an idiot for asking. All Maria's black dislike pooled again in her skull. “Yeah, because I'm not important or anything.”<br />
<br />
“No.”<br />
<br />
His answer surprised her. “Yeah, I mean, I'm just the missing princess come home. Not like that's worth celebrating or anything.”<br />
<br />
Ioan did not answer right away and when he did, his bland disgust slapped limply at her: “You say you are the missing princess.”<br />
<br />
“I am.”<br />
<br />
“Are you?”<br />
<br />
“You don't believe me, do you.”<br />
<br />
“I watched you die. I watched them bury you.” A helpless anger swayed his body. “I watched them carefully as they mourned your passing, to be sure they did not mourn themselves into their own graves. It was finished.”<br />
<br />
“The king and queen know I am their daughter,” Maria sad. “Why would you doubt them?”<br />
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Ioan sliced a hand through the air. “Folk will see what they most desire to see. You are but a clever impostor at best. My king and queen lost a child – their only child – and it is only the basest of people who would intrude on that sorrow and exploit it for profit.”<br />
<br />
Maria watched the rage and suspicion war within him. He really believed her a pretender, did he? Well, she was sorry to disappoint but she'd never have attempted such a <i>coup d'etat</i> on her own volition.<br />
<br />
“I am the princess,” she said quite simply.<br />
<br />
“Impossible.”<br />
<br />
“And yet, here I am,” Maria answered. She held his gaze for an uncomfortable moment, then tipped her chin and breathed in the beauty of the glass ceiling. “If you'd be so good as to tell the king, I would like to see what that roof can do.”Rachel Heffingtonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08383034249438542111noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6863271505161273073.post-59572393584312698882016-10-24T11:00:00.000-04:002016-10-24T11:48:16.632-04:00Release Announcement - Once: Six Historically Inspired FairytalesFanfare! Trumpets! Excitement in triplicate! This time I'm breaking blog-silence to announce something actually a little bit wonderful. Too often you've opened Blogger to find The Inkpen Authoress has published a post, only to see it's just a scrap of scrappy flash fiction or another apology at having been so incognito. But this time, loves, this time I'm here to announce the publication of another novella. My novella which some of you were introduced to as "The Spindle and the Queen," to be exact. Now re-titled and being published in just over a month as <i>She But Sleepeth</i>, the novella and five others by my companion authors will be released in a one-of-a-kind collection. Friends and countrymen, meet:<br />
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<blockquote class="tr_bq" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
<b>Six
fairytales you thought you knew, set against a tapestry of historical
backgrounds.</b><br />
A lonely girl plots revenge in the shadow of a mountain. A stolen
princess fumbles a century backward. A dwarfish man crafts brilliant
automatons. A Polish Jew strikes matches against the Nazis. A dead
girl haunts a crystal lake. A terrified princess searches a
labyrinth. A rich collection of six historically inspired retellings,
<i>Once</i> is a new generation of fairytales for those who thought
they'd heard the tales in all their forms.<br />
Featuring the
novellas of Elisabeth Grace Foley, Rachel Heffington, J Grace
Pennington, Emily Ann Putzke, Suzannah Rowntree, and Hayden Wand.</blockquote>
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I have been working on this project secretly since Suzannah Rowntree and Elisabeth Foley (the brain-parents of this collaboration) approached me to ask if I would participate by throwing<i> She But Sleepeth</i> into the ring. I am so proud of all the authors in this collection. Each fairy-tale is so unique, so different, and so exciting. With a retelling of "Rumplestiltskin," "The Little Match Girl," "Sleeping Beauty," "Little Red Riding Hood," and "Rapunzel" in the mix, the novellas incorporated in <i>Once</i> are really something else. We will be releasing <i><a href="https://www.goodreads.com/book/show/32702848-once">Once: Six Historically Inspired Fairytales</a></i> as an e-book fairy-tale collection on December 2, 2016, so just a bit over a month until you can read the stories for yourself!<br />
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My contribution, <i>She But Sleepeth</i>, is a re-spinning of "The Sleeping Beauty," set in the beautiful Peles Castle in Romania's Carpathian Mountains. Guys, having been on-location of the actual setting of my story, I cannot begin to tell you how excited I am for you to read it. There is so much of the palace I was unable to include because of the story's length, but I hope you will enjoy reading the partially-true story of Romania's Princess Maria. You will hear more about it in the story's "historical note," but the uncanny parallels between the real princess and the sleeping beauty story gave me chills. It seemed like the deeper I researched, the more perfect that pairing became. It is now time to spam you with a couple photos to whet your appetite:<br />
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<br />
Ahhhh, for a castle of my own. *happy sigh* I hope you'll go ahead and check out <a href="https://www.pinterest.com/rachelscribbler/she-but-sleepeth/">the Pinterest board</a> for <i>She But Sleepeth </i>and continue on to the rest of the authors in the collection who are telling us a little bit about their own stories. Feel free (please!) spread the word about Once with the hashtag #OnceFairytales on Twitter, Instagram, Goodreads, Pinterest, Facebook, your blog, and whichever form of social media you'd like! We will be spreading promo images around like confetti so ya know, why not? And if you'd like to pre-read and review the collection, please send an email to <b>cinderella19395@gmail.com </b>and Elisabeth Foley will get you all set! And please, travel on to see the read about the stories from the rest of my fellow #OnceFairytales authors!<br />
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<a href="http://www.vintagenovels.com/2016/10/announcing-once-six-historically.html">Suzannah Rowntree</a><br />
<a href="http://thesecondsentence.blogspot.com/2016/10/announcing-once-six-historically.html">Elisabeth Grace Foley</a><br />
J. Grace Pennington<br />
<a href="http://haydenwand.blogspot.com/2016/10/introducing-once.html">Hayden Wand</a><br />
<a href="http://www.authoremilyannputzke.com/2016/10/introducing-once-six-historical-fairy.html">Emily Ann Putzke</a><br />
<br />Rachel Heffingtonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08383034249438542111noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6863271505161273073.post-81408178872453095492016-09-12T15:49:00.001-04:002016-09-12T15:49:41.271-04:00in a world uncertain say you'll be my stone<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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I love finding pop-singers whose lyrics actually give you food for thought. Too often I can either not understand what they're saying or don't agree with what they're saying. So when I find a singer whose lyrics are not only catchy but also thoughtful, I like to keep them close. Lately for me, the singer who holds the top spot is Alessia Cara. Favorite among her songs are "My Song" or "Stone" or "River of Tears." The following lyrics are from "Stone."<br /><br /><div>
<i>So much on my mind, I think I think too much<br />Read between these lines, unspoken weight of words<br />But time comes to rest when you are by my side, it blurs<br /><br />And I will follow where this takes me<br />And my tomorrows long to be unknown<br />When all is shaken, be my safety<br />In a world uncertain, say you'll be my stone<br /><br />Change in every wind<br />The sands of time don't know our name<br />Oh nothing's sure, but surely as we stand<br />I promise I will stay the same<br />And I've never seen forever<br />But I know we'll remain<br /><br />And I will follow where this takes me<br />And my tomorrows long to be unknown<br />When all is shaken, be my safety<br />In a world uncertain, say you'll be my stone<br />(Oooooooh oooh oooh)<br />Be my stone<br />In a world uncertain, say you'll be my stone<br /><br />Oh steady me, be my source of gravity<br />While my world's unraveling<br />Say you'll never change, ooooohhhh!!! Oh!<br /><br />And I will follow where this takes me<br />And my tomorrows long to be unknown<br />When all is shaken, be my safety<br />In a world uncertain, say you'll be my stone<br />(Oooooooh oooh oooh)<br />Be my stone<br />In a world uncertain, say you'll be my stone</i></div>
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Who are your favorite lyricists currently?</div>
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Rachel Heffingtonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08383034249438542111noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6863271505161273073.post-13225822462641207562016-08-16T19:42:00.002-04:002016-08-16T19:42:26.810-04:00First Lines From The Lost Stories<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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As I went back through all of my flash fiction pieces and story beginnings in the dusty nooks of my Google Drive files, I thought it would be amusing to share the first line of each and see whether I'm an accomplished, indifferent, or wonderful first-liner. If you so feel, publish a companion post of your own!<div>
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"Dear Hog Nose:</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
In the art of espionage you're never asked to know your comrades."</div>
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...</div>
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"It was the first day of summer and a high, white melody was at play in the trees."</div>
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...</div>
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"Long after, when the yellow roses on the trellis had faded; when she knew him and knew his story and knew that he was much more intense that she’d supposed; Winona often wondered how she could have taken it so lightly.A Frenchman moving into the neighborhood."</div>
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...</div>
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"Kat Durrant hitched the strap of her bag higher on her shoulder and stooped so the air-vent would quit drilling into her scalp."</div>
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...</div>
<br />"Four daughters and not of a one of them turned out to be a tiny blonde. Poor Daddy. He was at a loss for exactly four years, wondering what to do with us since there weren’t any weddings in the foreseeable future. Then Jackie graduated highschool and wanted New York City."<div>
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...</div>
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"After--long after, when rain finally drowned the too-sunny sun and he had forgotten his splinter--Oliver thought he would remember precisely how his mother looked when he was put on the train and taken away from his family with a lot of other little children who didn’t want to go either."<div>
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...<br /><br />"It didn’t pay to be a writer; either he failed (and owed money) or got famous (and owed more money)."</div>
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...</div>
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"They had asked her one too many times what he was like. It wasn’t an easy thing, describing your childhood friend before a judge and jury who thought he was guilty of murder."<div>
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...</div>
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"At six o’clock, just when the sky turned the color of an Anjou pear, he took a willow-basket from its nest above the bureau and thought of her."<div>
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...</div>
<br />“Would mademoiselle like me to look out for her partner in the lobby?” The maitre d’ bowed over the table, over her arm, till the white breast of his uniform nearly brushed the pink carnations.<div>
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...<br /><br />"On Carris Street, we are very open about our misfortunes. It is nice, having things to complain about."</div>
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Rachel Heffingtonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08383034249438542111noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6863271505161273073.post-16398161180369034882016-07-25T11:40:00.001-04:002016-07-25T11:40:17.707-04:00Dear Twenty-Five<div style="margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 0.22in;">
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<a href="https://s-media-cache-ak0.pinimg.com/564x/9b/d8/52/9bd852efabd66a420f307d3e34ddea73.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="640" src="https://s-media-cache-ak0.pinimg.com/564x/9b/d8/52/9bd852efabd66a420f307d3e34ddea73.jpg" width="426" /></a><i>Dear Twenty-Five:</i></div>
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Raise your hand if
you're where you thought you'd be.</div>
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Who is?</div>
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Raise your hand if
you've done things that have scared you, even if you did them
accidentally.</div>
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Raise your hand if
you've loved.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 0.22in;">
If you've lost.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 0.22in;">
If you've
conquered.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 0.22in;">
If you've feared.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 0.22in;">
If you've seen at
least one dream come true.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 0.22in;">
If you've chosen a
fork in a road you thought would be straight.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 0.22in;">
Raise your hand if
you've bought something on impulse. Ugly-laughed till your ribs
seized in pain. Cried in public (you know you've cried in public).</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 0.22in;">
And now that your
hand is raised, look around at all the other hands raised, half
shyly, half confidently. That shy confidence, that confident shyness
are all marks of having lived a quarter century.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 0.22in;">
You tell me not to
say that, that it makes you feel old.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 0.22in;">
Oh, twenty-five,
I'm laughing. Don't feel your antiquity, feel the power of having
grown. Your heart has pattered twenty five years, sometimes racing,
sometimes lulling, sometimes the only indication that you're still
here, still in reality. You've crunched through twenty-five
leaf-filled autumns, twenty-five winters bright as new quarters,
twenty-five shy-confident springs, melted through twenty-five
summers. Five years ago you were holding your sudden adultness like a
fishnet, caught in it. Ten years ago you sat in algebra class.
Fifteen years ago you skinned your knee. Twenty years ago you ate
someone else's graham cracker and got slapped. Twenty-five years ago
you squalled at the bright lights of a new world. A world which you
hadn't asked to enter and didn't know to love.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 0.22in;">
When you look at
it like that, it all gets better.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 0.22in;">
But it <i>hurts</i>.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 0.22in;">
Yes, it hurts.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 0.22in;">
But it's
beautiful.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 0.22in;">
Yes, it's
beautiful.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 0.22in;">
Just think –
where did you intend to be at twenty-five? Not here? Well, does that
surprise you after all? Since when have you ended up anyplace you
intended? Life isn't calculated to go according to our schemes, thank
God.
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 0.22in;">
Perhaps you
haven't found your true love, but you have found love to be true.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 0.22in;">
Perhaps you
haven't done all you meant to have done, but I can assure you that
you've done other things you never meant to do, some of them turning
points in those twenty-five years.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 0.22in;">
You've seen weird
things, Twenty-Five. Things like stirrup pants and an unfortunate
poncho craze, dial-up internet and FaceTime. You've seen violence and
history destroyed and history made. You've seen so much in so short a
time but weigh that against the age of this world and what have you
seen?</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 0.22in;">
Oh, you are not
old.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 0.22in;">
You are not old
like eternity. You are not old like the Joshua trees. You are not old
like Jerusalem or the spires of Oxford. You are not even old like
filling stations and big-band music and the wooden floors of the soda
shop downtown.
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 0.22in;">
Old? You are so
young, Twenty-Five, that you have no concept of what Age is.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 0.22in;">
Age is
opportunity.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 0.22in;">
Age is another
year and another twelve months to do the improbable.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 0.22in;">
Age is entropy,
but Age is not caring.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 0.22in;">
Age gathers the
days to her chest and grins, having outwitted another year. She is
far from old. She is young, and forever young. It is the young who do
things, and the more days to your life, the more time to do.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 0.22in;">
How many years are
yours?</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 0.22in;">
I don't know.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 0.22in;">
You're not who or
where or what you expected to be at a quarter century, are you?</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 0.22in;">
So what?</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 0.22in;">
You're much more.
So much more. A ruffled, hopeful, madful mess.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 0.22in;">
So, Twenty-Five,
put away your comparisons. If you are to be someone other than you
are, you will be her. You're still living, aren't you? You're still
growing and there are still autumns and winters and summers and
springs and <i>I</i> think you'll understand.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 0.22in;">
Light twenty-five
candles on your cake today and smile at the small forest fire it
makes. And before you blow them out I want you to pause and I want
you to look back and I want you to look forward. And most of all I
want you to know that you, Twenty-Five, are meant to be.</div>
<br />
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 0.22in;">
I love you and I
think you're fantastic. But guess what? If you live to be one hundred
you are only a quarter as fantastic as you'll someday grow to be.
Age? Embrace it like a hug from a long-lost friend. Bury your face in
its shoulder and squeeze it hard and maybe even let it tip you
off-balance with the force of its awesomeness. You're twenty-five and
you're pretty damn fine.</div>
Rachel Heffingtonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08383034249438542111noreply@blogger.com12tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6863271505161273073.post-44902284761376478862016-07-11T01:00:00.000-04:002016-07-11T01:00:08.319-04:00Back To Work<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<br />
Hello, Readers! So sorry for the slack in communication. I signed on for an immense real-life project that has taken up all my creativity and spare time for the last month solid so I'm afraid I have that excuse. In other news, I have a new career goal:<br />
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To have material published in the print version of <i>Saveur Magazine</i>.</div>
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<br /></div>
Seeing that they accept submissions and that they're my favorite food journalism outlet, I decided I'd have a go. Now to get on that. I pulled out <i>The Spindle & The Queen</i> (my "Sleeping Beauty" retelling) recently, being reminded that I should finish brushing it up so that it's actually a finished product and from there making decisions about it. I'll be working on the re-haul and to keep myself inspired, I thought I'd share a few bits of it.<br />
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<br /><br /><br /><blockquote class="tr_bq">
L.A., luridly in need of a power-wash, smelled of swimming pools and half-boiled dreams this morning.</blockquote>
<br /><br /><br /><blockquote class="tr_bq">
<br />"...you've got to get some hustle, sweetheart, or I'll call another girl to take your place. I can get 'em. Anywhere, anytime. Lot of girls. Lot of guys too. Head of design for Thurman-Fischer. Girl. Step it up like Fred Astaire."</blockquote>
<br /><br /><blockquote class="tr_bq">
<br /><br />“All right, Princess.” His sly grin nauseated her. He actually made her sick. “But only because you're cute and my Yoda told me my juju's off. Need to balance the symbiotic relationship between my spleen and diaphragm with a series of generous act and a kombucha bath.”</blockquote>
<br /><br /><br /><br /><blockquote class="tr_bq">
Maria prepared to exit this dark-paneled room with its portraits of the handsome king and his patient-eyed queen. Their long-suffering faces, especially the queen's, gave her the creeps. Like a young fashion maven who hadn't received her customary invitation to the Met Gala and was going to Talk to Someone about it. </blockquote>
<br />Rachel Heffingtonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08383034249438542111noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6863271505161273073.post-60786836663000327632016-05-09T08:16:00.002-04:002016-05-09T08:16:47.117-04:00Argument, Summa Cum LaudeIn honor of the more than ten friends who graduated college this past weekend comes a slightly different piece of flash fiction. Conversation inspired by them, location inspired by my cousin's wedding rehearsal dinner. I find it interesting and a good exercise to write from two perspectives - neither of which particularly hold. It's a good way to keep one's mind broad - to try to write convincingly from a side that doesn't have you fully convinced. Anyway, I hope you enjoy it!<br />
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<div style="margin-bottom: 0in; text-align: center; text-indent: 0.21in;">
<i>Argument, Summa Cum Laude</i>
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in; text-align: center; text-indent: 0.21in;">
by Rachel Heffington</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 0.21in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 0.21in;">
From this angle
the girl who had escaped to the shrubbery as I had –
presumably to quit the hot crush of the crowded party room –
appeared to be my height or a little taller. Instinctively, I glanced
down at her feet. She wore shoes with a small heel. Were she
barefoot, I would have the edge in height and this pleased me. I am
not a man who can spare many inches to the advantage of others.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 0.21in;">
I stepped off the
moss-grown walk onto the gravel circle, gave it a deliberate
crunch under my heel. She turned, startled, then smiled. Dusk bloomed
around her, blending the edges of her gray dress softly into the
drawing night.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 0.21in;">
I raised a hand in
greeting toward this charcoal-sketch of a stranger and wandered to fountain in the center of the gravel circle. No water in the
fountain. Nor had there been for some time if the collection of
cigarette ashes and dead leaves were an indication. I took careful
note of these things in an effort to ignore the presence of the girl.
I'd gone to the shrubbery to be alone, of course, and wished to
remain that way. But soon the smallness, the ridiculousness of we two
sharing the same neat-lawned, hedged-about patch of yard without
speaking bore down on me.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 0.21in;">
“Rather a crowd
in there, huh?” I ventured.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 0.21in;">
She, who had drawn
off a few paces, turned to me. “Yes, well, graduations are a thing
worth celebrating, I suppose.”</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 0.21in;">
I drew a cigar
from my pocket. “Do you mind?”</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 0.21in;">
She shrugged.
“Only if the wind turns my direction.”</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 0.21in;">
Cigar clenched
between my teeth, I cupped my hands and touched a match to its end.
This business done, I drew on it and considered the girl. “You a
graduate of the grand old Class of '39?”</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 0.21in;">
She smiled a funny
smile. Almost an angry smile. “I'm not.”</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 0.21in;">
“Ah, so you're a
student then?”</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 0.21in;">
Another smile
tinged with a diluted shade of fury. “Actually, no. I'm not a
student at all. I don't learn anything. Never.” She hugged herself
with a petulant toss of her head. “I've actually given up learning.
Stupid to learn anything these days.” Her hair, cut in a
blunt-edged bob, sat sharply dark against her heart-shaped face.
Defiance incarnate and a dimple in her chin.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 0.21in;">
I smoked hard,
processing what she had said and whether it was strictly sarcasm or
whether she might, on the outside chance, believe her own words.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 0.21in;">
“If you're not a
student or a graduate,” I finally asked, “do you mind me asking
why you are here?”</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 0.21in;">
She scoffed. “Oh,
so it's only graduates or students who may attend the ceremony of a
good friend?”</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 0.21in;">
“Look, if you
think that's what I meant...”</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 0.21in;">
“Isn't it what
you meant?”</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 0.21in;">
“I only meant –
”</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 0.21in;">
“Yes, what <i>did
</i>you mean? You'd think a <i>student </i>would have enough brains
to know there must be a motive behind asking a question. Now speak
plain or I'll go inside. I'd much rather not be bothered by
impertinent young men just now, if it's all the same to you.”</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 0.21in;">
She made my mind
whirl with the rapidity of her insults. How we'd gone from demure,
dusk-sketched dryad to seething shrew in a few sentences bewildered
me. Where'd it gone off? A fellow would never have done it. I wished
madly for the seclusion I'd left the party to seek.<i> This</i> was
why I referred gals to my older and younger brothers. This was why
I'd made it into manhood without so much as a second date with any one of them. Women were such complex creatures.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 0.21in;">
Heaven-sent, I'm
sure.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 0.21in;">
Beautiful,
undoubtedly.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 0.21in;">
Perfection in
human form.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 0.21in;">
But not something
you wanted to go trawling through just for fun, you know. They were
much too apt to land on you, claws out.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 0.21in;">
“Forgive me,
ma'am,” I said with a cold, polite bow. I flicked my cigar into the
empty fountain and watched it smolder against the skeleton of a maple
leaf. “It was not my intention to offend.”</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 0.21in;">
“And who offers
his apologies?”</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 0.21in;">
Her distinctly
different tone of voice jerked my gaze to her laughing face. She'd
dropped the shawl somewhat from her shoulders which were now bare to
the purple evening. Proud, aristocratic shoulders as if the dignity
of the world – and its riches – belonged to her.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 0.21in;">
“Don't you have
a name?” she asked.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 0.21in;">
Blood rush to the
tips of my ears, turning them scarlet. “Alexander Britton.”</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 0.21in;">
“Madeleine
Vincent.”</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 0.21in;">
How small her hand
felt in my big paw! Yet her grip was stronger than many fellows' and
the eyes that fastened on mine were a sensible, affable blue. Not
forget-me-not or violet or gray blue. Just blue, tending toward green
at the outer rim.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 0.21in;">
“You're Vince's
sister?” I asked, trying to reconcile she of the gray dress with
Roland Vincent, currently up to his crumpled necktie in a bottle of
bourbon.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 0.21in;">
“His cousin,
actually. And yes, I'm here because he got it into his head to try
for a tightly-rolled piece of paper which will henceforth allow him
to think himself cleverer than the rest of the family.”</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 0.21in;">
“College hater,
I take it?”</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 0.21in;">
“Not
particularly.”
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 0.21in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 0.21in;">
Somehow, in that
way peculiar to strangers in a strange place, we came together and
started walking; we had now reached the far edge of the gravel circle
and had to turn back or cross the lawn to go on. Unhesitating, she
stepped onto the grass and we sauntered through the hedge via an
arched opening. Beyond the hedge lay a damp, meadow-like acre. We
made in the general direction of an enormous, many-limbed oak growing
in the left corner, nearest the party-house. Madeleine sat on an
board-swing hanging from the tree branch unfurling like an elephant's
trunk from the tree's heart.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 0.21in;">
“What's your
game?” she asked, suddenly.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 0.21in;">
I cleared my
throat. “I'm fair at baseball.”</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 0.21in;">
“I meant now,
here. Why are you talking to me?”</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 0.21in;">
“Because one of
you is much less terrifying to my nerves than three hundred of them.”
I jerked my head toward the house as a torrent of raucous voices
poured out an open window.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 0.21in;">
“And why don't
you walk on, alone?” she asked.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 0.21in;">
“Why didn't
you?”</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 0.21in;">
“And ignore
someone speaking to me?” she marveled.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 0.21in;">
“Women have done
harsher things in the name of privacy.”</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 0.21in;">
She sat on that
swing without swinging at all, which seemed equal parts nonsensical
and practical. I think it would have spoiled the effect if she'd gone
cavorting through the sky. Madeleine Vincent seemed, above all, to
relish her composure and balanced her girlhood (could she be older
than nineteen?) with the carriage of a Parisienne.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 0.21in;">
“I suppose
you're getting a degree?” she asked.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 0.21in;">
I nodded. “My
second, actually.”</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 0.21in;">
“Ughhhh.” A
shiver.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 0.21in;">
“You do yourself
no credit acting like an idiot,” I cautioned. “I'm sorry to use
the term, but you don't even sound like a thinking adult when you
speak that way. If you so despise the educational system, you might
keep that opinion to yourself. If you choose to spout it for all the
world to hear, be prepared to be laughed at.”</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 0.21in;">
She chewed her
bottom lip.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 0.21in;">
“There is
nothing,” I said, waxing hot as I familiarized myself with the subject, “more laughable than an uneducated person beating the
educated man over the head with her lack of education. There are
forms to be observed in lodging complaints against the system. I'd be
happy to instruct you in them if you so choose.”</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 0.21in;">
“Look at him!
I've made the little toffee-nose angry!” she wobbled on the swing,
settling herself into it with a dangerous glint in her eyes.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 0.21in;">
“I only intend
to help.” Whatever slight interest her svelte figure had brightened
in me when I first saw her faded now to a weary sensation of having
to calm a petulant child before she set off the hue and cry.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 0.21in;">
“Is Vince...is
he all right?” she asked at length.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 0.21in;">
I shrugged. “Not
the worst in the lot.”</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 0.21in;">
She looked off
toward the house. “He drinks too much.”</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 0.21in;">
“Not more than
most.”</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 0.21in;">
“He doesn't
study,” she said, pinning me with those blue eyes.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 0.21in;">
“Not many do.”</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 0.21in;">
“He doesn't
apply himself at all, does he?”</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 0.21in;">
I stuffed my hands
in my pockets. “We-ellll...not terribly much. But nobody does.”</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 0.21in;">
“And he skips
classes often.”</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 0.21in;">
“<i>Everyone</i>
skips classes, Miss Vincent. It's part of survival.”</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 0.21in;">
“But he still
graduates? Acting like that he<i> still </i>graduates!”</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 0.21in;">
Somewhere I
recognized I'd lost another battle. “Look, it's not <i>like</i>
that.”</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 0.21in;">
“Isn't it?”
Madeleine shook her head and the sharp black bob swept her chin.
“That's what I hate. A person might work his whole life. A person
might read every book he could get his hands on. A person might splay
himself wide open for the sake of self-improvement but if he didn't
go to college and get a cap and tassels and a piece of paper that
says he's spent four years of his life skipping classes and boozing
himself, the world won't take him seriously.”</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 0.21in;">
I stared,
slack-jawed at her. “You little minx! It isn't like that at all.
Most students work very hard for their degrees.”</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 0.21in;">
“You just say
most people don't apply themselves.”</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 0.21in;">
“That was
hyperbole.”</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 0.21in;">
“<i>You </i>are
hyperbole.” Madeleine breathed very fast and a certain expression
flitted across her face as if she realized the flawed logic in her
comment.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 0.21in;">
“You want to
misunderstand me,” I said. “You do your very best to misinterpret
what I mean.”</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 0.21in;">
“Oh, just shut
up, Mr. Alexander Britton.”</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 0.21in;">
It was the first
time she had used my name and again that curious self-consciousness
filtered into her eyes. She banished it and the hardness returned.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 0.21in;">
“I'm not
interested in discussing it further. Look, we're here to congratulate
my cousin and his friends and...and you for achieving what you all
set out to achieve. I don't have to admire your pretension to
congratulate you, do I? Basic civility allows me to recognize that
four years devoted to any pursuit are, at any rate, four years of
devotion.” She stood and the swing banged against the back of her
knees. She took both my hands in hers. “Congratulations, Mr.
Britton. Use your <i>education</i> well. Now leave me, please. I'm
not ready to go in just yet.”</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 0.21in;">
Nor was I but the
grand oak stooped over us, forbidding me to stay. A keen wind riffled
through the hedge-leaves and I shivered. “You're not cold?”</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 0.21in;">
“No.” She sat
on the swing again.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 0.21in;">
“Well.” I
squinted at the party-house, pretending to concentrate on something,
though I barely noticed at what I was squinting. Anything to avoid
<i>her </i>gaze. “Goodbye, then.”</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 0.21in;">
“Goodbye, Mr.
Britton.”</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 0.21in;">
“Will I see you
later – at the party?”</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 0.21in;">
She squared her
chin. “I think not. I don't belong among those people. I'll only
have this conversation with <i>every</i> other person in that room.”
Great weariness weighted her voice to a murmur. “I don't think I
have perspective to spare.”</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 0.21in;">
Listening to her,
I felt myself becoming more and more depressed. I didn't want her to
despise me and the fifty-eight other people in the house behind, but
I could not see her angle.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 0.21in;">
I sighed.
“Goodbye.”</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 0.21in;">
“So you said.
Please go away now. I'm tired.”</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 0.21in;">
<br />
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 0.21in;">
I did as she
commanded and once inside the hot, over-crowded house a feeling of
great moroseness fell upon me. Even the Manhattan a friend shoved in
my hand couldn't cheer me. I wandered to the back of the house where the clamor seemed loudest.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 0.21in;">
“Hey, Vince.”</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 0.21in;">
He didn't hear me
over the shrill chatter of three girls in thin dresses wearing stolen
graduation caps. I waved him down instead and Vince, red in the face
and shouting with laughter, squeezed through the crowd to my side.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 0.21in;">
“Alex, enjoying
yourself?”</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 0.21in;">
“Fine party.
Fine,” I lied.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 0.21in;">
“Great! Never
seen a crowd happier to be done with it all. To hell with studying!
To hell with finals!” Vince raised a brimming shot filled by one of
the girls, and the people nearest commended his toast with a rowdy
cheer.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 0.21in;">
I licked my dry
lips and tugged on his sleeve. “Met your cousin in the garden.”</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 0.21in;">
“Oh, fine girl,”
he yelled. “Bit dramatic, but fine.”</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 0.21in;">
“Funny bird,
seems to me,” I confided.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 0.21in;">
Vince's roving
eyes settled briefly on me with a look of extreme amusement. “One
of the funniest. Has funny ideas about society. Pretends to think
college is bull.”</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 0.21in;">
“Yes. She,
umm...said so.”</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 0.21in;">
He laughed rather
harder than necessary at this. “Look at your face! Bet she told you
she despises being kissed and she'd never travel abroad, not even if
someone else paid for it three times over. Little Maddy. Silly girl,
but sweet when she's in the mood.”</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 0.21in;">
“Does she mean
any of it?”</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 0.21in;">
The three girls
crowded once again around Vince; I could barely see his polished head
above the other party-goers.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 0.21in;">
“What?” he
roared.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 0.21in;">
“Does your
cousin really mean it – about kissing and college and travel and
all?”</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 0.21in;">
“Ha!” he
laughed, and even though I couldn't see him for all the arms
embracing him, his intoxicated voice rose above the clamor: “Girl
doesn't mean a word of it! She tried for ten colleges and they all
turned her down. Silly little pigeon. Likes to spit in their eye,
now, every chance she gets.”</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 0.21in;">
So that was it.
The irrational anger and the defiance and the childlike shame. I
looked down at my hand and realized I had rolled my cocktail napkin
like a diploma. I tapped it against my palm a few times, smiling.
Then, still smiling, I tossed it away and stalked back outside.</div>
<br />
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 0.21in;">
With any luck,
there'd still be a furious, blue-eyed girl sitting on the old board
swing.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 0.21in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 0.21in;">
<br /></div>
Rachel Heffingtonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08383034249438542111noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6863271505161273073.post-75341010352133131872016-05-02T21:16:00.000-04:002016-05-02T21:16:00.306-04:00Favorite Literary Accounts on InstagramI'm more frequently on Instagram than I am on Twitter and even Facebook, so when it comes to keeping up with authors and those in the literary world, I rely heavily on those with Instagram accounts. Which are my favorites? Oh, let me give you some of the best:<br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<br />
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-size: large;">The Strand Book Store:</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<blockquote class="instagram-media" data-instgrm-captioned="" data-instgrm-version="6" style="background: #fff; border-radius: 3px; border: 0; box-shadow: 0 0 1px 0 rgba(0 , 0 , 0 , 0.5) , 0 1px 10px 0 rgba(0 , 0 , 0 , 0.15); margin: 1px; max-width: 658px; padding: 0; width: 99.375%;">
<div style="padding: 8px;">
<div style="background: #F8F8F8; line-height: 0; margin-top: 40px; padding: 61.5800865801% 0; text-align: center; width: 100%;">
<div style="background: url(data:image/png; display: block; height: 44px; margin: 0 auto -44px; position: relative; top: -22px; width: 44px;">
</div>
</div>
<div style="margin: 8px 0 0 0; padding: 0 4px;">
<a href="https://www.instagram.com/p/BE2G1BgOT-j/" style="color: black; font-family: "arial" , sans-serif; font-size: 14px; font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: 17px; text-decoration: none; word-wrap: break-word;" target="_blank">Thanks to everyone who came to see us today for #IndieBookstoreDay! 💕 We're feeling pretty lucky that while we can't always read on the job, we're surrounded by 18 miles of books. #BookBlessed | 📷: @ursula_uriarte</a></div>
<div style="color: #c9c8cd; font-family: Arial,sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 17px; margin-bottom: 0; margin-top: 8px; overflow: hidden; padding: 8px 0 7px; text-align: center; text-overflow: ellipsis; white-space: nowrap;">
A photo posted by Strand Book Store, NYC (@strandbookstore) on <time datetime="2016-05-01T01:00:29+00:00" style="font-family: Arial,sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 17px;">Apr 30, 2016 at 6:00pm PDT</time></div>
</div>
</blockquote>
<br /></div>
Official account of the famous bookstore in New York City, @strandbookstore is a fun account to continuously whet your appetite for reading and exploring new books with their snaps of customers, new displays, celebrity bookworm sightings, and more.<br />
<br />
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-size: large;">Pictures of Text</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<blockquote class="instagram-media" data-instgrm-captioned="" data-instgrm-version="6" style="background: #fff; border-radius: 3px; border: 0; box-shadow: 0 0 1px 0 rgba(0 , 0 , 0 , 0.5) , 0 1px 10px 0 rgba(0 , 0 , 0 , 0.15); margin: 1px; max-width: 658px; padding: 0; width: 99.375%;">
<div style="padding: 8px;">
<div style="background: #F8F8F8; line-height: 0; margin-top: 40px; padding: 50.0% 0; text-align: center; width: 100%;">
<div style="background: url(data:image/png; display: block; height: 44px; margin: 0 auto -44px; position: relative; top: -22px; width: 44px;">
</div>
</div>
<div style="margin: 8px 0 0 0; padding: 0 4px;">
<a href="https://www.instagram.com/p/BBxp1PNrCwX/" style="color: black; font-family: "arial" , sans-serif; font-size: 14px; font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: 17px; text-decoration: none; word-wrap: break-word;" target="_blank">It is Valentine's Day.</a></div>
<div style="color: #c9c8cd; font-family: Arial,sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 17px; margin-bottom: 0; margin-top: 8px; overflow: hidden; padding: 8px 0 7px; text-align: center; text-overflow: ellipsis; white-space: nowrap;">
A photo posted by B.J. Novak (@picturesoftext) on <time datetime="2016-02-14T17:55:57+00:00" style="font-family: Arial,sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 17px;">Feb 14, 2016 at 9:55am PST</time></div>
</div>
</blockquote>
</div>
<br />
Actor/Writer/Screenwriter BJ Novak (<i>The Book With No Pictures</i> is a personal favorite) has the best eye for humorous, idiosyncratic, and just plain weird things written...everywhere! This account literally is what it says: pictures of text.<br />
<br />
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-size: large;">Atticus</span></div>
<br />
<blockquote class="instagram-media" data-instgrm-captioned="" data-instgrm-version="6" style="background: #fff; border-radius: 3px; border: 0; box-shadow: 0 0 1px 0 rgba(0 , 0 , 0 , 0.5) , 0 1px 10px 0 rgba(0 , 0 , 0 , 0.15); margin: 1px; max-width: 658px; padding: 0; width: 99.375%;">
<div style="padding: 8px;">
<div style="background: #F8F8F8; line-height: 0; margin-top: 40px; padding: 49.8611111111% 0; text-align: center; width: 100%;">
<div style="background: url(data:image/png; display: block; height: 44px; margin: 0 auto -44px; position: relative; top: -22px; width: 44px;">
</div>
</div>
<div style="margin: 8px 0 0 0; padding: 0 4px;">
<a href="https://www.instagram.com/p/BEz9d8PJP9T/" style="color: black; font-family: "arial" , sans-serif; font-size: 14px; font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: 17px; text-decoration: none; word-wrap: break-word;" target="_blank">Imperfect @atticuspoetry #atticuspoetry</a></div>
<div style="color: #c9c8cd; font-family: Arial,sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 17px; margin-bottom: 0; margin-top: 8px; overflow: hidden; padding: 8px 0 7px; text-align: center; text-overflow: ellipsis; white-space: nowrap;">
A photo posted by a t t i cu s (@atticuspoetry) on <time datetime="2016-04-30T05:00:12+00:00" style="font-family: Arial,sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 17px;">Apr 29, 2016 at 10:00pm PDT</time></div>
</div>
</blockquote>
<br />
<script async="" defer="" src="//platform.instagram.com/en_US/embeds.js"></script>
Before finding this poet on Instagram, I had often run across quotes of his via Pinterest. Though the sap-level can sometimes run high here, his turns of phrase are often thoughtful enough to cause me to pause, reflect, and remember. I highly recommend following him if you're looking for (very short) bits of poetry/prose to add to your daily life.<br />
<br />
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-size: large;">Austin Kleon</span></div>
<br />
<blockquote class="instagram-media" data-instgrm-captioned="" data-instgrm-version="6" style="background: #fff; border-radius: 3px; border: 0; box-shadow: 0 0 1px 0 rgba(0 , 0 , 0 , 0.5) , 0 1px 10px 0 rgba(0 , 0 , 0 , 0.15); margin: 1px; max-width: 658px; padding: 0; width: 99.375%;">
<div style="padding: 8px;">
<div style="background: #F8F8F8; line-height: 0; margin-top: 40px; padding: 50.0% 0; text-align: center; width: 100%;">
<div style="background: url(data:image/png; display: block; height: 44px; margin: 0 auto -44px; position: relative; top: -22px; width: 44px;">
</div>
</div>
<div style="margin: 8px 0 0 0; padding: 0 4px;">
<a href="https://www.instagram.com/p/BEy8oWIA1wB/" style="color: black; font-family: "arial" , sans-serif; font-size: 14px; font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: 17px; text-decoration: none; word-wrap: break-word;" target="_blank">Everything between the ears #newspaperblackout</a></div>
<div style="color: #c9c8cd; font-family: Arial,sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 17px; margin-bottom: 0; margin-top: 8px; overflow: hidden; padding: 8px 0 7px; text-align: center; text-overflow: ellipsis; white-space: nowrap;">
A photo posted by Austin Kleon (@austinkleon) on <time datetime="2016-04-29T19:33:39+00:00" style="font-family: Arial,sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 17px;">Apr 29, 2016 at 12:33pm PDT</time></div>
</div>
</blockquote>
<script async="" defer="" src="//platform.instagram.com/en_US/embeds.js"></script>
You have to love the sarcastic, hilarious, cut-bait author of <i>Steal Like An Artist</i>. And if you don't already love him, just contact me or <a href="http://thesecondsentence.blogspot.com/">Elisabeth Foley </a>and we'll get you on the road to recovery.<br />
<br />
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-size: large;">The Washington Post</span></div>
<br />
<blockquote class="instagram-media" data-instgrm-captioned="" data-instgrm-version="6" style="background: #fff; border-radius: 3px; border: 0; box-shadow: 0 0 1px 0 rgba(0 , 0 , 0 , 0.5) , 0 1px 10px 0 rgba(0 , 0 , 0 , 0.15); margin: 1px; max-width: 658px; padding: 0; width: 99.375%;">
<div style="padding: 8px;">
<div style="background: #F8F8F8; line-height: 0; margin-top: 40px; padding: 50.0% 0; text-align: center; width: 100%;">
<div style="background: url(data:image/png; display: block; height: 44px; margin: 0 auto -44px; position: relative; top: -22px; width: 44px;">
</div>
</div>
<div style="margin: 8px 0 0 0; padding: 0 4px;">
<a href="https://www.instagram.com/p/BD6w12ESA6S/" style="color: black; font-family: "arial" , sans-serif; font-size: 14px; font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: 17px; text-decoration: none; word-wrap: break-word;" target="_blank">"When I was nine-years-old I accomplished something that my dad thought merited a reward. He took me to the ZCMI department store and told me I could pick out one item...when I showed him the copy of Anne of Green Gables he furrowed his brow and asked if I was sure that's what I wanted. With all my heart I assured him indeed it was...after a few minutes and my pleading face, he knew that book was what I wanted more than anything in the world. He bought it for me and as you might imagine that #firstreads was a catalyst to many other literary adventures," writes @bookbloom. 📚What was your favorite book as a child? What books do you pass on to your children now? Take a photo & tag it with @washingtonpost and #firstreads!📚 Be sure to check our Instagram to see if your photo was featured! We're gearing up to celebrate Beverly Cleary’s 100th birthday on April 12! Her iconic characters, among them sisters Ramona and Beezus, inspired generations of children to turn to books for connection and inspiration. Your photo may appear on our site or on our other social media channels too! (Photo courtesy of @bookbloom) #books #favoritebook #nostalgia #reading</a></div>
<div style="color: #c9c8cd; font-family: Arial,sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 17px; margin-bottom: 0; margin-top: 8px; overflow: hidden; padding: 8px 0 7px; text-align: center; text-overflow: ellipsis; white-space: nowrap;">
A photo posted by Washington Post (@washingtonpost) on <time datetime="2016-04-07T23:53:10+00:00" style="font-family: Arial,sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 17px;">Apr 7, 2016 at 4:53pm PDT</time></div>
</div>
</blockquote>
<br />
<script async="" defer="" src="//platform.instagram.com/en_US/embeds.js"></script>
Can't go wrong following an account that posts about pop culture, politics (both global and American), books, and art. <i>The Post</i> is my favorite to fill this spot.<br />
<br />
<br />
<div style="text-align: center;">
<i>Do you have any favorite literary accounts I should be following? Share them on Twitter (@Rachelswhimsy) or Instagram (@lipstickandgelato) so I can follow along. :)</i></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<i><br /></i></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<i><br /></i></div>
Rachel Heffingtonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08383034249438542111noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6863271505161273073.post-4612583186630790382016-04-11T04:00:00.000-04:002016-04-11T04:00:08.968-04:00Celebrating Book Drunkenness Reading widely obvious has advantages. Your vocabulary will grow. You might win games of Scrabble, or at least take home laurels for scoring the most points per word. You'll be familiar with reams of cultural references which is something I especially enjoy. It will give you something to talk about with strangers or to think about on road trips. Reading's great. We all acknowledge that. But I'm always thrilled when I find even more ways reading is fantastic. Want to know what some of those are?<br />
<div style="text-align: center;">
<i><br /></i></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<i>When dead authors and current wordsmiths express matching sentiments about a subject:</i></div>
<br />
<br />
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
"They dress a man up in peacock feathers and insist on looking at him that way. Up to the very last moment they hope for the best. They have a kind of foreboding as to what's on the other side of the coin, all right, but they wouldn't breathe a word of it, perish the thought! They keep pushing the truth away with both hands. Until such a time as the peacock man steps out of his feathers and personally crowns them fools."<br />
-<i>Crime & Punishment</i> by Fyodor Dostoevsky</blockquote>
<div>
<br />
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
"And so it goes one foot after the other till black and white begin to color in. And I know that holding us in place is simply fear of what's already changed."<br />
-Sara Bareilles "Manhattan"</blockquote>
<br />
<div style="text-align: center;">
<i>When other people cherish the books that have grown to be a part of your heart: </i></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<i><br /></i></div>
</div>
<blockquote class="instagram-media" data-instgrm-captioned="" data-instgrm-version="6" style="background: #fff; border-radius: 3px; border: 0; box-shadow: 0 0 1px 0 rgba(0 , 0 , 0 , 0.5) , 0 1px 10px 0 rgba(0 , 0 , 0 , 0.15); margin: 1px; max-width: 658px; padding: 0; width: 99.375%;">
<div style="padding: 8px;">
<div style="background: #F8F8F8; line-height: 0; margin-top: 40px; padding: 50.0% 0; text-align: center; width: 100%;">
<div style="background: url(data:image/png; display: block; height: 44px; margin: 0 auto -44px; position: relative; top: -22px; width: 44px;">
</div>
</div>
<div style="margin: 8px 0 0 0; padding: 0 4px;">
<a href="https://www.instagram.com/p/BD4JAJNyA_K/" style="color: black; font-family: "arial" , sans-serif; font-size: 14px; font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: 17px; text-decoration: none; word-wrap: break-word;" target="_blank">"Here are some of my girls' favorite books that we've read aloud to them, some multiple times!" writes @dosaygive. Her favorite book was "The Secrect Garden" and her favorite book to read to her children is "Happy Little Family!" What was your favorite book as a child? What books do you pass on to your children now? Take a photo & tag it with @washingtonpost and #firstreads. Be sure to check back to see if your photo was chosen, as we gear up to celebrate Beverly Cleary’s 100th birthday on April 12! Her iconic characters, among them sisters Ramona and Beezus, inspired generations of children to turn to books for connection and inspiration. Your photo may appear on our site or on our other social media channels too! (Photo courtesy of @dosaygive) #books #reading</a></div>
<div style="color: #c9c8cd; font-family: Arial,sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 17px; margin-bottom: 0; margin-top: 8px; overflow: hidden; padding: 8px 0 7px; text-align: center; text-overflow: ellipsis; white-space: nowrap;">
A photo posted by Washington Post (@washingtonpost) on <time datetime="2016-04-06T23:26:34+00:00" style="font-family: Arial,sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 17px;">Apr 6, 2016 at 4:26pm PDT</time></div>
</div>
</blockquote>
<br />
<div style="text-align: center;">
<i><br /></i></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<i>When you check out a book from the library and it still has the sign-out sheet in the back. All those people. All their stories. All the thoughts they thought while reading it.</i></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<i><br /></i></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://s-media-cache-ak0.pinimg.com/564x/eb/ae/0e/ebae0ee36127733e8af0ae8a8ecc5547.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="640" src="https://s-media-cache-ak0.pinimg.com/564x/eb/ae/0e/ebae0ee36127733e8af0ae8a8ecc5547.jpg" width="384" /></a></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<i><br /></i></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<i><br /></i></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<i>When you read a line and it feels so perfect that you have to reach for a scrap of paper, the back of a receipt, or even your phone's notes section and write it down.</i></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<i><br /></i></div>
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<a href="https://s-media-cache-ak0.pinimg.com/564x/24/43/35/2443359e3bd028501a26a21e423f96e8.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="640" src="https://s-media-cache-ak0.pinimg.com/564x/24/43/35/2443359e3bd028501a26a21e423f96e8.jpg" width="426" /></a></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<i>When you're traveling and notice someone is reading a book you've enjoyed.</i></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://s-media-cache-ak0.pinimg.com/564x/21/3b/75/213b758507f93d403e40e61c1f873db0.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="640" src="https://s-media-cache-ak0.pinimg.com/564x/21/3b/75/213b758507f93d403e40e61c1f873db0.jpg" width="464" /></a></div>
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<i><br /></i></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<i>On the airplane when everyone else has to put down their device but you smile and continue reading.</i></div>
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<i><br /></i></div>
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<a href="https://s-media-cache-ak0.pinimg.com/564x/a9/53/f2/a953f29315f2dababe3590e2b20f2b74.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="640" src="https://s-media-cache-ak0.pinimg.com/564x/a9/53/f2/a953f29315f2dababe3590e2b20f2b74.jpg" width="640" /></a></div>
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<i><br /></i></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<i>When you know the topography of a book so well that you can remember events just by looking at a stain or a crumpled page.</i></div>
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Rachel Heffingtonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08383034249438542111noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6863271505161273073.post-40585299836739089902016-04-03T21:12:00.001-04:002016-04-03T21:12:30.431-04:00"Eu de Lil" - A Partially True Telling Of ThingsHello, Friends!<br />
Many of you saw the April Fool's prank I played on social media the other day. To pull that off, I walked up to a random stranger in a coffee shop and asked him to take an engagement selfie with me so I could prank some of my friends on April Fool's Day. He obliged, and I spent all of April Fool's in the highest of good humors. This event collided with having finished another J.D. Salinger book and begun yet <i>another</i>. I returned this evening to that coffee shop and sat down to write a short story. The piece of fiction which came out of that writing session is this: my partially-autobiographical thank-you to J.D. Salinger and that coffee-shop stranger. Enjoy!<br />
<div style="text-align: center;">
<i><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></i></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in; text-align: center; text-indent: 0.19in;">
<i><span style="font-size: large;">"Eau de Lil"</span></i>
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in; text-align: center; text-indent: 0.19in;">
<i>by Rachel Heffington</i></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in; text-align: center; text-indent: 0.19in;">
<i><br /></i></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 0.19in;">
I knew something
was adrift when she changed her perfume. Her scent had always been an
interesting and none-too-common Pandora's box affair of verbena,
rose, lily-of-the-valley, and sandalwood. No chemist had every
compounded that scent. Lillian had made it herself out of the ends of
castaway bottles of more respectable perfumes, in my opinion. I had
always been able to tell when my sister was home, though I never
called for her. It was quite enough of a certainty to force the
unyielding lock of our front door to open, to shove in the heavy
wooden doors, and smell that <i>eau de Lil</i>.
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 0.19in;">
I tossed my keys
into the ugly pottery bowl on the credenza. “What's the deal?”
There was a new smell of citrus and spice. It was complex. It was
seductive. For a crazed moment I panicked that I had somehow entered
the wrong flat in our brownstone and a half-clothed French woman
would come sauntering out of her bathroom to behold me, the intruder.
What a Frenchwoman would be up to in our neighborhood of Ghent was
beyond me.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 0.19in;">
But no other
family would suffer that hideous hand-thrown pottery crater to remain
in the public line of vision. It possessed, according to family
legend, the indentation of a famous potters thumb – a sometime
friend of our father's before he'd quite the artistic circle for
academics – and therefore the horrible thing was left quite out of
the reach of those of us less discerning. I had often wished Abe, our
oldest brother, would smash it in one of his drunken brawls, but did
he? He hadn't the decency, I suspected. Scar the furniture, beat the
stuffing out of mother's sofa. Crash half the heirloom china under
one of your weighty fists but don't, by heaven, do anything merciful
to the Benini Bowl. You will likely understand my position. It is a
firmly held belief of mine that every family possesses its variety of
Benini Bowl.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 0.19in;">
“Lil? Lillian,
where the deuces are you, you overgrown kitty-cat?”</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 0.19in;">
Not even the use
of her familiar and much-despised nickname brought a response from my
sister. I wandered down the hall to the doorway of Lillian's room and
here paused. In our childhood we used to have sort of Company
Meetings, so to speak, in Lil's room. We would sprawl on her queen
bed which, at that time, seemed massive, and discuss the world at
large. Abe and I enjoyed relatively unusual welcome from our sister;
but for all these memories, I had yet to ever enter the Abode of
Lillian without the strict permission and approval of its inhabitant.
Today was no different.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 0.19in;">
“Lil?” My
adolescent vocal changes had never thoroughly come to and end and at
nineteen, I was quite the same sort of graceful parrot-throated boy I
had been five years ago. I knocked two knuckles against the
door-frame and leaned halfway in.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 0.19in;">
There was Lillian,
not crying her eyes out as you might expect, or asleep, but sprawled
across the width of her bed with her heels kicking in the air as if
she were a mere girl of thirteen, not ten years past that forgiving
age.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 0.19in;">
“What the heck,
Lillian? Why the funny smell?”</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 0.19in;">
She turned her
head to give me a withering gaze. “Oh, do shut up, Sassparilla.”</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 0.19in;">
My name was
Samuel, but people seemed incapable of remembering that particular
fact about yours truly. All sorts referred to me by this name which
name had come about due to my uncommon devotion to sarsaparilla the
full duration of my childhood.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 0.19in;">
I would not,
however, be put out by this indignity. “Hey, Lillian?”</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 0.19in;">
“Yeah?” She
was scribbling something in her journal.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 0.19in;">
“Why are you
wearing a new perfume?”</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 0.19in;">
She didn't answer.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 0.19in;">
“Did you run
out?”</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 0.19in;">
No reply.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 0.19in;">
“Did you lose
the bottle?”</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 0.19in;">
Still no answer.
Lillian was never short on words. Her new reluctance to speak haunted
me. I crossed into the room and felt the sacred seal break. I'm not
sure it really happened, but it seemed to me that Lillian's shoulders
stiffened when I silently passed the threshold. I'm not sure. But her
heels came down. She suddenly seemed very much twenty-three again.
Still, if I'd gone through the trouble of coming this far, it was
only the dignified thing to see it through. In one wild moment of
courage, I plopped onto the bed beside Lillian. I even shoved her
left elbow over to try to see what she was writing. Didn't get very
far, but that didn't bother me. I had Lillian's attention now. She
had really noticed me. She capped her pen and positioned her chin on
her arms.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 0.19in;">
“Sassparilla,
you know something?”</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 0.19in;">
“What?” Her
window was open and the smell of baking pizza twirled into the room
from the pizzeria down the street. I was suddenly inexpressibly
hungry. Starving in fact.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 0.19in;">
“You need a
haircut,” she said.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 0.19in;">
“I need <i>food.</i>
What's up, Lillian?” I asked again. “I know something happened to
you.”</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 0.19in;">
“Okay.”
Lillian sat upright and started picking at her cuticles. “Something
did happen.”</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 0.19in;">
I almost gave
tongue to my satisfaction at being right, but I didn't want to shut
down the confessional factory. I made the most encouraging, “Go on.
Please do,” face in my repertoire and waited.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 0.19in;">
Lillian continued
picking at the beds of her nails with a funny smile. It was a smile I
saw infrequently. A smile that meant something – and this was rare
– had gone well beyond Lillian's powerful imagination. The first
occasion had been when she'd got free lipstick from a beauty counter
at a drugstore just for happening to be the five-hundredth customer
that day. Another time she had successfully sneaked into a stranger's
wedding reception at a fancy hotel, signed the guest-book, and taken
away a piece of cake while I watched from a service elevator. The
third time the smile had lasted a full week and had, according to
reports, much to do with the acquaintance of one Robert Cavendish.
The Robert Cavendish affair had died down pretty rapidly and it had
been months, come to think of it, since I'd seen that smile.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 0.19in;">
And now here it
was, devilishly red and amused. Finished picking the right hand,
Lillian began on the cuticles of her left. Her nails needed
re-painting, I noticed. Lillian hated the whole process of
nail-painting but she did it religiously every Friday night. It was
Thursday. The manicure had survived the week about on-average.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 0.19in;">
“You remember
the new bank on Llewellyn?”</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 0.19in;">
“Which new one?”
I brought up my mental file of our wedge of Norfolk and considered
each bank in my knowledge.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 0.19in;">
“The one on
<i>Llewellyn</i>!”</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 0.19in;">
“Ah – hate to
tell ya, Lil, but it's not new. Been open three years at least.”</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 0.19in;">
“New to me.”</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 0.19in;">
“Everything's
new to you.”</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 0.19in;">
“I like to be
impressed,” Lillian replied with an arch smile. “It's quite
satisfying.”</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 0.19in;">
“You're crazy.”</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 0.19in;">
Lillian's eyes
suddenly became serious. She nodded. “I know. I am. Totally nuts.”</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 0.19in;">
Here we came,
creeping closer to the disclosure of whatever secret was eating at
Lillian, doing things to her...changing her perfume. I deepened the
“Please, do,” face and rolled over on my back.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 0.19in;">
“Well,” her
voice felt for the edge of the topic like when you're at the beach in
springtime and you're quite certain the ocean's still frigid but you
feel compelled to put your foot in anyway. “I was at the bank
and...you know tomorrow's April Fool's?”</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 0.19in;">
I wriggled. I'd
forgot. And I needed a good prank to pull on dumb old Abe for not
smashing the Bellini Bowl. “Uh, yeah.”</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 0.19in;">
“Yeah.”
Lillian had finished picking her nails. Now she started on peak of
her top lip – a nervous habit leftover from a traumatic teething
period during toddlerhood. “Well, I thought what a joke it'd be to
pretend I was engaged. You know, just for the heck of it.”</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 0.19in;">
“Who pretends
they're engaged for the heck of it?” I asked.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 0.19in;">
Lillian shrugged.
“I don't know. I told you I was crazy.”</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 0.19in;">
“What'd you do?
Propose to a stranger?”</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 0.19in;">
“Noooooo...”
Lillian quit picking at her lip. “You know my Polaroid camera?”</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 0.19in;">
“Yeah.”</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 0.19in;">
“Well, I thought
I'd get somebody to take a photo with me. I had my class ring in my
pocketbook – just got it cleaned at the jeweler's. So what I
figured is, if I could get some man to take a picture with me...”</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 0.19in;">
“What man?” I
put in.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 0.19in;">
“I don't know.
Some man.”</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 0.19in;">
“Lillian – you
didn't.”</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 0.19in;">
“Of course I
did!” My sister glared at me, then the smile came back. She
shrugged. Picked at her lip again. “I mean, nobody would believe me
unless there was photographic proof. You can't prank people by
<i>telling </i>them <i>any</i>thing. Everyone's a doubting Thomas in
these progressive days. I needed a picture so what I did is – ”</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 0.19in;">
I sat up and shook
my head. “You're absolutely crazy.”</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 0.19in;">
“Didn't I agree?
Now shut up, Sassparilla, or I won't finish telling you.”</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 0.19in;">
I hated people who
didn't finish telling things. “What'd you do? Pick the handsomest
one?”</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 0.19in;">
That smile came
back. “Well look, if I'm going to fake a fiance, why not choose
someone I'd actually <i>marry</i>, for heaven's sake? I mean, you
can't just pull this trick a few times. It's a one-shot game, Sass.
You're done, you're done.”</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 0.19in;">
“I get it,
Lillian. Don't have to convince me!”</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 0.19in;">
She settled back
down on the bed and hugged herself. I thought how she looked thirteen
again. Funny how a person can go back and forth ten years like that.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 0.19in;">
“Well,” she
said. “I had a guy all picked out. A teller. You know. I'd gotten
<i>used</i> to him, sorta. I went through the scenario at least five
times in my head and had it all worked out. And then...well, I
started thinking about how it would would be if I went through all
the trouble of asking him and he wouldn't pose with me and how
embarrassed I'd feel, and then I saw his eyes.”</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 0.19in;">
“What was wrong
with his eyes?” She had me curious now.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 0.19in;">
Lillian shook her
head. “No sense of humor. Not a <i>twinkle</i> of a sense of humor.
He was awfully nice-looking. Just my style. But I bet there wasn't an
atom in his body that'd let him laugh at me, let alone allow him to
stoop to taking a photo with a strange girl. I mean, don't get me
wrong. He was terribly nice-looking. Probably smart too. But I bet he
wouldn't laugh even if Harpo <i>Marx </i>came in there.”</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 0.19in;">
“I wouldn't
laugh if Harpo Marx came over to me,” I said.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 0.19in;">
My sister made an
exasperated sound. “Yeah but you don't <i>like </i>comedy. You're
just like That Man, Sassparilla, darling. You're very intellectual.”</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 0.19in;">
I didn't much like
how that sounded when Lillian said it like that. I didn't much like
what I'd heard of That Man, as she called him, and being told I was
just like him wasn't my idea of a clear compliment. I said so.
Lillian said that I was being sensitive. I said, would she just hurry
up and finish her story so I could go get a snack. She said I was
free to go. I said if she didn't finish, I wouldn't make Bananas
Foster. She loves my Bananas Foster and, because she's the most awful
cook in the world, her hands were tied.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 0.19in;">
Lillian bounced on
the bed, so I bounced too. We bounced together, she and I, and she
might've even looked a couple months younger than thirteen at this
point.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 0.19in;">
“Well, I'd just
about screwed my courage to the sticking point. I was going to <i>do</i>
it, by Holyrood. I'd loitered forever, filled out deposit slips with
false names, reapplied lipstick, put on this new perfume sample
rolling around in the bottom of my pocket-book – ”</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 0.19in;">
“AHA!” I
squawked, rather more violently than necessary.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 0.19in;">
“My <i>word</i>,
Sassparilla!”</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 0.19in;">
I blushed. “It's
just, you were finally getting to the perfume.”</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 0.19in;">
She ruffled. “And
I'll go on getting to it if you'd just shut up for five seconds.”</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 0.19in;">
“Okay. I'm
shutting up. I'm shutting up.”</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 0.19in;">
“Anyway, just as
soon as I'd gotten myself all ready and riled, do you know what
happened? He up and left. He left! A teller! As if he had permission
to leave right as I got brave. I'd got used to <i>him</i>, you know.
It had taken an hour to get that far. And he left.”</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 0.19in;">
“Wasn't there a
– ”</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 0.19in;">
“<i>Sassparilla</i>
Martin. Shut <i>up</i>. I <i>looked</i> for another man but I didn't
like their noses.”</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 0.19in;">
“Their noses...”</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 0.19in;">
“I'm not
particular about much but when it comes to noses, I have standards.”
This wasn't news to me – Lillian had a very nice nose herself and
wanted to be sure her children got it. “They were handsome enough
and stylish enough and men enough in the place but they just didn't
have a good nose on them.”</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 0.19in;">
The story seemed
to be drawing to a climaxless close. Her teller left and she hadn't
been crazy enough to ask a stranger for a photograph in the bank. All
this seemed a relief to me, though it was a little too bad for <i>her</i>,
you know. With her impressed little smirk and sparkling eyes.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 0.19in;">
“I was furious
with myself, Sassparilla.” She kicked her bedroom slipper across
the room. “How would you feel if you'd stuck around a whole darn
hour getting your courage up and the thing you were hunting just
skipped town?”</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 0.19in;">
“I'd feel
relieved Fate had got me out of an embarrassing position I'd never
put myself in to begin with.”</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 0.19in;">
She sighed. “Well,
I actually stomped my foot I was so crazy mad. And then I saw him.”</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 0.19in;">
“Whom?”</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 0.19in;">
“Listen to the
educated young owl.” Lillian shook back her brown hair, smiling. “I
saw another man. With blue eyes.”</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 0.19in;">
“Adequate nose?”</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 0.19in;">
“Very adequate.
He was tall and broad-shouldered. Not quite what I'd call my style,
but attractive all the same. And he had good teeth! Do you know,
Sass, how hard it is to find a man with a nice smile?”</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 0.19in;">
“Do I have a
nice smile?”</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 0.19in;">
“Don't flatter
yourself, darling. You know your teeth are crooked. Oh, don't look at
me like that! It isn't <i>your</i> fault you lost your retainer on
vacation.”</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 0.19in;">
I mentally cursed
Abe, who had thrown my retainer into Lake Champlain three Augusts
ago. My teeth were a sore point with me. “So you saw this man.”</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 0.19in;">
“Yes, I saw him
and I don't know what came over me. I felt perfectly calm and cool
and collected and I just slipped that ring on and took my Polaroid
camera out of my pocketbook and marched right up to him. He had one
of those faces that looked ready for a laugh. He might never teach at
Harvard, but he certainly would know a joke when he saw one.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 0.19in;">
'Excuse me,' I
said, smiling my brightest. 'I realize this is a strange request, but
I wondered if you might be willing to help a girl out with pulling an
April Fool's trick on a friend?'</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 0.19in;">
He sort of smiled.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 0.19in;">
Then I said, 'All
I need is a snapshot of you and me and this ring.' And I held up my
left hand with my class ring. The guy was really grinning now, like
he thought it was the best idea he'd heard all day. Never-mind I was
a total stranger in a bank lobby and I'd just asked for his
photograph. He just sort of grinned at me, put his arm out to embrace
me, and said,</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 0.19in;">
'Let's do it!'”
Lillian leaned back on her hands and laughed. That's another thing I
liked about her. She never giggled or tittered, for heaven's sake.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 0.19in;">
I let out an
appreciative whistle, just for her. “I hate to say this, Kitty-Cat,
but your brain is one in a million. Even if you are certifiably nuts.
Who'd you get to take the photo?”</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 0.19in;">
“That's just it!
This fellow was kind enough to flag down the bank manager. We took
our photo and I thanked him and that was that. He even waited around
till I'd shaken it to see if it came out all right.”</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 0.19in;">
“Did it?”</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 0.19in;">
That <i>smile
</i>again. Lillian turned, reached into her journal, and brought out
a fresh Polaroid. There was my sister all right: womanly and
vivacious, smiling so hard you worried her face might shatter with
gladness. Her class ring shone on her left hand which she held up
between herself and the strange man. To tell you the truth, a big
lump formed in my throat when I looked at the picture. She looked so
happy. Like it was real. Like she'd actually got engaged to a man she
really loved. He looked happy too. Thrilled, in fact. Funny thing is,
they looked like a couple of kids. Lillian wasn't even twelve in that
photo. She looked hardly eleven. The lump bobbed in my throat. I
worked around it to say,</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 0.19in;">
“Wow, that's
nice, Lil. Picked a good one.” I quickly put the Polaroid photo
face-down on the bedspread. I couldn't stand to look at it anymore.
“What was his name?”</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 0.19in;">
She shrugged and
picked up the photo, cradling it in her palm. “Funny thing is, I
was so excited to have been that brave, I forgot to introduce
myself.”</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 0.19in;">
“<i>Lil</i>lian.”</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 0.19in;">
“Well?”</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 0.19in;">
I
couldn't take it any more. I stood up and plunged my hands into my
pockets. “Do you see your<i> face</i>
in that picture?”</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 0.19in;">
“What's
wrong with it?”</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 0.19in;">
My
stomach growled like three caged lions. “Look at it! You're
grinning like he actually <i>proposed</i>
or something!”</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 0.19in;">
“I
was over the moon!” she said defensively. “All a person needs is
one wild, crazy moment of bravery to touch off <i>unspeakably</i>
interesting things. And after failing to nab the first guy, I was
doubly satisfied with myself.”</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 0.19in;">
“You're
too easily pleased.”</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 0.19in;">
She
rolled her eyes. “What was I supposed to do? Ask him to the movies?
He was a good sport, darling, but I'm no <i>femme fatale</i>.
I don't ask men for Polaroids just to lure them in.”</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 0.19in;">
“I
know you don't. That's just the trouble with you.”</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 0.19in;">
“The
<i>trouble</i> with me?”</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 0.19in;">
“Yeah!
You're too darned <i>nice</i>.
You're too genuine for anyone. You ought to try ulterior motives
sometime, Lillian Martin. They're <i>good</i>
for things like catching men. They're good for getting what you want
in life. You act like yourself, you act normal, you're not going to
get <i>any</i>where. That's
the matter with you, Kitty-Cat. You're too apt to think the best of
people, or act all the way like yourself. You've got to go into the
world arms akimbo or it'll never make space for you. That's what <i>I
</i>think.” I flapped my elbows,
fists still in my pockets. “Gotta try some complexity. Some
<i>duplicity</i> for gosh
sake.”</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 0.19in;">
Lillian's
face went quiet. She still had the Polaroid in her hand and traced
the man's features absently with one fingertip. “I don't believe
that, Samuel.”</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 0.19in;">
My
blood positively clinked with ice cubes. I couldn't remember the last
time she'd looked that old. She looked almost ancient. Probably
nearly thirty. Neither could I remember the last time she'd used my
real name.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 0.19in;">
I
breathed heavily through my nose. “You gonna see him again?”</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 0.19in;">
She
shrugged. “Probably not.”</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 0.19in;">
“Think
<i>he'd </i>remember <i>you
</i>if you saw him again?”</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 0.19in;">
Another
shrug.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 0.19in;">
Because
she didn't, I said what I knew my sister was thinking: “Probably
not.”</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 0.19in;">
I
sneaked another look at the snapshot. The tonnage of senseless joy in
that photo killed me. I took a deep breath. The unfamiliar, new smell
of her perfume did nothing to dissipate that blockage in my throat.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 0.19in;">
“Hey,
Lil?” I squeaked.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 0.19in;">
“Yeah?”</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 0.19in;">
I
cleared my throat. “Why're you still wearing that perfume?”</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 0.19in;">
I
didn't expect her to answer and she didn't. She just stood up and
retrieved her bedroom slipper, came back to the bed, and jammed it
on.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 0.19in;">
“Why
not use the old stuff?” I pressed. “You've never changed it up
before. You make such a thing of having a 'signature scent,' you
know. It's not like you to start wearing something new.”</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 0.19in;">
Of
course she didn't say anything. She just sat there looking
embarrassingly thirteen. But despite it all that rare, fortified
smile drifted back onto her face. I almost didn't want to look at
her. She was such a ridiculous, hopeful little thing sitting there
smiling like that when we both knew the joke was up. My stomach
roared again. Gosh, I loved Lillian.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 0.19in;">
I
stalked to her bedroom door, then wheeled about. “You two look
great together. I'm just saying.” I took a step into the hall, then
poked my head back in. “And he's a damned fool if he doesn't
realize a once in a lifetime girl when he sees her.”</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 0.19in;">
“Don't
swear, Sassparilla.”</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 0.19in;">
“Sorry,
but I'm only <i>saying...</i>”</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 0.19in;">
Lillian started to pick at her lip again but I watched her age rack
back up: fifteen, sixteen, eighteen, twenty-three. “Hey, Sass?”</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 0.19in;">
“Yeah?”</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 0.19in;">
She looked pretty much back to normal now. “The perfume.”</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 0.19in;">
“Yeah.”</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 0.19in;">
“How else is he supposed to recognize me? I'm just saying,
maybe...” Pink, pink color ran into Lillian's face and that smile
beamed in full strength. “...maybe the scent...maybe it'll trigger
memory. You know, if we ever meet again.”</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 0.19in;">
<br />
</div>
<br />
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 0.19in;">
I just looked at her, marveling. Then I smacked the door frame with
the flat of my palm and stalked off into the kitchen. I had Bananas
Foster to make for a girl who damn well deserved them.</div>
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Rachel Heffingtonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08383034249438542111noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6863271505161273073.post-55208447375263687992016-03-28T02:00:00.000-04:002016-03-28T02:00:19.252-04:00The Red Shooter Hat<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://s-media-cache-ak0.pinimg.com/236x/a3/44/49/a3444995a55e55bbf3759d2f303a0599.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://s-media-cache-ak0.pinimg.com/236x/a3/44/49/a3444995a55e55bbf3759d2f303a0599.jpg" width="280" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">see? i identify with this. </td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div>
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I don't know why, but when I read a classic book I usually seem to get hold of it by the wrong end. I don't <i>go </i>to misinterpret or to catch a different meaning than everyone else, but somehow I do. When I read, I let the story carry me. I let go of analysis until I have finished the book. Its effect on me usually remains to be seen until the final pages are gone. I don't know how to analyze as I go. And even if I did, I think I would get caught in the current of the story and forget to. When I was younger I used to grow frustrated that I couldn't foresee the solution of a mystery when my brother, bless his soul, could guess in three pages who had done it and how, and possibly in which room. Then I grew older, and it frustrated me (and still frustrates me) that I seem to interpret books differently than the official analysis. Take,<i> Go Set a Watchman</i> by Harper Lee. That book made critics throw back their heads and howl with pain as Lee allegedly ripped the character of Atticus as we know him, to shreds. When I read the book I was disappointed in Atticus, yet Lee had built her characters and story-world well enough that the shift in conviction didn't exactly <i>ruin </i>Atticus for me. It made him even more real...because he has a (very large) flaw that one didn't see in <i>To Kill a Mockingbird </i>but that one could believe given his age and times. There is an argument to be made for the idea that Harper Lee didn't intend the version of Atticus seen in <i>Go Set a Watchman </i>to be the Atticus the world knew because, after all, she published TKAM and Atticus mightn't yet have been in his final form in its prequel. There is that argument (I spent some time this weekend arguing the point with the aforementioned brother) and that is a topic for another post. But the fact remains that I didn't react the way the majority of the public reacted to<i> Go Set A Watchman</i>.<div>
Likewise, upon strength of recommendation from a friend, I dived into J.D. Salinger's work this week. He is best known, I believe, for <i>The Catcher in The Rye</i>. I've read that and am now halfway through <i>Franny & Zooey</i>. Since I entered Catcher not knowing anything about it, really, except that it was generally regarded as something People Should Read, I had no preconceived notions about what it would or would not be. My initial reaction was that Salinger is a darn good wordsmith. The best way I can describe the way his writing effects me is that it feels like soda bubbles up one's nose. It's unexpected and fresh and totally different than most anything else I've ever read. My second reaction was that I, too, could write like Salinger if I replaced all my adjectives with swearing. My third reaction was that Catcher's main character, Holden Caulfield, was a boy who'd grown up too fast. His morals are questionable at every turn, but his heart is gold. I know that sounds like an anomaly. Perhaps it is. But what I saw in the character was a boy who has rushed headlong into the world and its many pleasures and yet finds himself confused by the hollow chaos and unsure how to handle how he feels about it. He is kind-hearted. He is smart. He is empty. He is generous. He has known tragedy and he has known happiness, in some small way. The kid's winded, that's for sure. He's going to kill himself presently if he doesn't get a grip, but I had a soft spot for Holden Caulfield.</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
Thus ran my mind as I closed <i>The Catcher in The Rye </i>and totted the name on my List of Books Read in 2016. Later on I looked up the book online to see what the GP (General Populace) thought of it and found that, apparently, I took away the wrong takeaway from the novel. It is reputed to be a manifesto of teen rebellion; the most censored book of the baby boomers' era; the mental ramblings of an obsessed kid; an inspiration for several shooters, including John Lennon's killer. And I swear to you most earnestly, I can't figure out <i>why</i> on my own. Once I looked up a couple articles, of course, I saw what they meant...if you're an over-thinker and like to overthink things. I mean, if you want to think hard enough about a grape, I guess you can decide it's a raisin and you wouldn't be <i>wrong</i>. You'd just be scrutinizing it past the point of good sense. Or maybe my difficulty is that I don't scrutinize much at all. I'm perfectly happy, if it's a good story, to take the story at face value. I like discussing deep things and ulterior motives and various interpretations, but I'm what Shakespeare would call a "pleasant-spirited lady" and I don't like assigning sketchy backstory to people helter-skelter. I'm more than willing to believe you are what you appear to be, until you give me a reason to think otherwise. I mean, take Holden Caulfield. Yeah, he's an emotionally unstable person given to hyperbole, but you don't exactly go around asking people if they're mad, do you? My problem is that characters become very real to me and I treat them, subconsciously, as if they were real acquaintances. I can imagine my friendship with Holden Caulfield going this way:</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
<i>Me: </i>"Hello, I'm Rachel."</div>
<div>
<i>H.C.:</i> "What're you *%#% introducing yourself to me for?"</div>
<div>
<i>Me:</i> "Oh, I thought you looked lonely. It's a little cold out here. Want to step inside?"</div>
<div>
<i>H.C. looks at me and shrugs.</i></div>
<div>
<i>Me:</i> "Let's go."</div>
<div>
<i>We step inside, camera shifts, H.C. shudders some rain off his coat.</i></div>
<div>
<i>Me: </i>"That's a dashing hat. Very red."</div>
<div>
<i>H.C.: </i>"Why the &$#@$@ does everyone comment on my hat? Isn't a fella allowed to wear a $%#$3 hat every once in a while if he wants to?"</div>
<div>
<i>Me</i>: "Well, it's a very nice hat."</div>
<div>
<i>H.C. begrudgingly: </i>"Gee, thanks."</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
I'd come away thinking that H.C. was a bit of a crab, had a great many peculiarities, but was probably a fairly nice person on the whole. I wouldn't sit there and <i>psychoanalyze</i> him and start getting a pathological fear of people who wear red deerstalker hats and try not to go home so they won't get into trouble with their parents for flunking out of yet another school. I mean, don't get me wrong: Holden Caulfield has <i>problems</i>. But I think I'm the one about to develop a paranoia of letting madmen go undetected. The really disturbing part is when, like with the quote above, I identify with the supposedly nut-so character in question.</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
I hate the fact that I don't pick up on subtle cues in literature. I'm not a great one for symbolism. I like people to say what they mean but I don't mind if it has two or three meanings. I like complexity. But I'm also not going to assume that when you put a character in a red hat he bought in New York City, that he needs a psychiatrist. I mean, give a man a sartorial break. At any rate, this is why I don't do book reviews on my blog; I always seem to come away with quite a different impression than the author intended and I'm not sure what that says about me. So now I want to open up a discussion and ask you: are you one of the dedicated G.P. that foresee the psychological conclusion of a character like Holden Caulfield or are you more like me: a woman a bit shy to clap the shackles of a sanitarium on a person who hasn't proved himself in any concrete way to be a total loony? </div>
Rachel Heffingtonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08383034249438542111noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6863271505161273073.post-83858240986309791162016-03-21T06:00:00.000-04:002016-03-21T06:00:02.223-04:00you are no stranger to me<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<br />
Here are some visual, verbal, and audible pieces of inspiration for the untitled short-story I mentioned last week. I hope you'll enjoy browsing what amounts to my current "mind palace." I'm working on this story as often as I can and though it's a paltry showing yet, I'm finding my way all right yet. I jokingly teased that the writing sector of my brain is like a mother hamster, eating its young when it gets startled. So I'm going to not speak an awful lot of this story for fear of saying all I have to say on the blog rather than in the word document. So apologies for being vague. This is how I'm rolling this tine around.<br />
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<i>"upon seeing you"</i><br />
<br />
I thought it unlikely to meet<br />
a stranger and know<br />
him for my own.<br />
Before words<br />
or look<br />
or laugh<br />
or smile;<br />
before <i>you</i> I recognized it:<br />
yours was a soul my soul<br />
knew well and<br />
the sweet click of the<br />
latch behind kept us<br />
in the thoroughfare.<br />
Should we go<br />
together?<br />
Do we part here?<br />
Home - safe home -<br />
is gone for now<br />
you are no stranger to me.<br />
And so I smile<br />
and hope<br />
you know the way<br />
because I'm lost already.<br />
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<a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=6SaSxJkH5do">"Sweet Serendipity"</a> - Lee DeWyze</div>
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<a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=th393UBVSMY">"Fall in Love" </a>- Peter Hollens</div>
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<a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=1GFkN4deuZU">"Destino"</a> - Walt Disney & Salvador Dali</div>
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<br />Rachel Heffingtonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08383034249438542111noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6863271505161273073.post-63824758641297469692016-03-14T22:08:00.003-04:002016-03-14T22:08:33.074-04:00Eleven on the Eiffel Tower<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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Hey, Guys! Last Monday I was not at all in town (Tampa is a beautiful place to spend a March Monday), and this Monday I'm late with the post, but I'm definitely posting, so that's something. I did a lot of talking-about-books in Tampa. The friends with whom I stayed are the sort of people who have read widely, who laugh at my affinity for the 19th Century British Novel, and who are able to suggest improvements to my course of reading. I've been told to read <i>Crime And Punishment</i> as soon as possible and to follow it up with some J.D. Salinger ("All of Salinger is great - he only published four books."). While in Tampa, I had the chance to go to Oxford Exchange - probably the most pretentiously-hipster place I ever hope to set foot in. There was, of course, an entire section devoted to books and I did, of course, have to buy at least one. I chose a creative's travel-guide to London in preparation for my trip next year and a newish French novel - <i>The Red Notebook</i> by Antoine Laurain. I'm not saying the latter choice was the most groundbreaking literature ever written (it was a simple, sweet, predictable, very enjoyable story), but I loved it. Sometimes, you know, you just want a book that does exactly what you hope it will do. <i>The Red Notebook </i>did that. I got so lost in the book that I momentarily forgot I was in Florida at all and had to blink round for a moment or two before I realized where I was.<br />
<br />
Perhaps my favorite part of Oxford Exchange was when I checked out at the desk with the preppy fellow in glasses. He slipped the titles across the desk to himself, palm down. His mouth quirked in a smile as he read the titles.<br />
"London...and Paris....which will it <i>be</i>?"<br />
I laughed. "Going to London next year."<br />
"But why not go to Paris too? I mean, you're already over there." He announced my total and leaned on the counter. "You can take the tunnel or something."<br />
I couldn't not let my cracking-grin out. "Have <i>you </i>been?"<br />
"Yeah. When I was twelve. I wish I remembered more of it. I'm sorry I can't give you recommendations."<br />
"That's all right. I want to go to the Eiffel Tower at eleven o'clock at night." I don't know why I told him that, but it wanted to be announced."<br />
He grinned. "Yeah? Why eleven o'clock?"<br />
"Oh, I don't know. I think it'd be prettiest then. The city might be a little quiet. The lights would all be out. I might have it more to myself."<br />
He tossed his head and laughed. "I bet everyone has that idea."<br />
"Yeah, probably."<br />
"Well, hey, eleven o'clock's all right, but you don't want to be out in Paris after midnight. They say strange things start to happen."<br />
"Is that so?" My mind swirled around and caught hold of his reference, tugging me back to the surface. "Right - well, I think I'll be all right as long as I don't get into any old cars with dead authors."<br />
He beamed. "Exactly - you know, the movie?"<br />
"Yeah! <i>Midnight in Paris</i>." I mentally blessed that random film choice on a Russian airline and turned to leave. "Have a great day."<br />
"You too! Enjoy London and Paris!"<br />
<br />
Another bright book-realm moment of the trip was talking home-libraries with one brother and seeing the personal library of the other. So many beautiful hard-bound editions. Such a wealth of knowledge in one location. Do you ever feel like that? Like if you could just make it through the entirety of the shelves (even of one small personal library) you'd be about twice as smart as you currently are? I do constantly. And it's a hopeful thing, you know, because there's always a chance you'll stumble upon some stroke of genius in a yet-unread book.<br />
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I've also been inspired recently by something I'm hoping to turn into at least a piece of flash-fiction if not a short story. If I'm really ambitious it could make it into a novella sized story, but we'll see. For now, know that I'm reading <i>Henry V </i>cozily, thumbing again through Chesterton's <i>Orthodoxy</i> as I feel like it, and putting<i> Crime And Punishment</i> on hold at the library. Ho for expanding one's mind!<br />
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<b>What are you reading, and do you have any recommendations for really good modern fiction?</b></div>
Rachel Heffingtonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08383034249438542111noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6863271505161273073.post-61407996847915631652016-02-29T02:30:00.000-05:002016-02-29T02:30:09.859-05:00Cliches I Wish I Had<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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Writers. We're such a strange set. We're such a cool set. I don't much like the stereotypes surrounding writers and their lives. We aren't all recluses - we can't afford to be. One has to actually socialize these days in order to have any sort of following. But there are some stereotypes that I wish I could fit in because, let's face it, the traditional writer (which I'm not) is a pretty cool creature. That being said, I wish I could...<br />
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<i>...live in a coffee shop</i></div>
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<i><br /></i></div>
Looking at my flash fiction, you might think I live at a coffee shop, but that's not true. I would love to be a regular. I would love to have a well-worn corner at the bar and a barista who knew my name and slid a fresh latte toward my laptop because he knew by the knitting of my brow and the pricking of my thumbs that I wasn't feeling the whole editing thing today.<br />
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<i>...sit on a white bed with perfectly shaved legs effortlessly balancing a laptop</i></div>
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Confession: I think sitting with your laptop anywhere near your actual lap is cause for ovarian cancer or something. At any rate, I'm sure it's not good for you. Also, who really wants to sit in bed all day? Also, whose feet don't fall asleep, like, right away after sitting Indian-style for more than five minutes? But you have to admit - it looks pretty darn cosmopolitan.</div>
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<i>...survive off coffee alone</i></div>
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Coffee is so low calorie, I almost wish I could be one of those writers who gets so absorbed in their work that they can't stop for food. That's how those girls keep so slim. #coffeeislife...I'm sorry, but I'm the opposite. If I'm even remotely hungry, I get the worst hankering to A) stop for a snack B) eat all the chocolate, ever, in the whole world C) browse Instagram ad infinitum. I love coffee...but I also love muffins, toast, Chex Mix, pink lady apples, tangerines, trail mix, chocolate chips, granola, and many other things it's possible to love more than coffee.</div>
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<i>...willingly shut out social life</i></div>
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We've discussed before how this aspect of my personality one hundred percent shoots me in the Achille's heel. It's almost impossible for me to choose writing time over people-time and that's why I'm sitting here writing a humorous blog post instead of sharing snippets of all the work (snark) I've gotten done recently. Of any writer stereotype, this one is the one I would give my left hand for. Not my right arm...I need that for writing, when I get around to it.</div>
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<i>...achieve the perfect messy bun + bangs</i></div>
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You'd think after all these years I would be able to get this one right. That perfect top-knot that every college sorority girl knows how to do. I just can't. I can coil my hair into a sort of tea-pot handle and stab a pen through it, but that's about all. Rest in peace, hopes for the iconic writer-girl hairstyle. You just weren't meant to be.</div>
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<i>....have so much plot it's bursting from my ears</i></div>
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This goes right up next to willingly shutting out social life. How people are overwhelmed with plot is beyond me. I am overwhelmed with atmosphere and characters and setting and clever sentences but plot comes to me only after blood sacrifices. Sheesh. Give girl a break, Plot, for heaven's sake!</div>
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<span style="color: #3d85c6;">.</span></div>
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<b>What are some stereotypes you'd like to be afflicted with?</b></div>
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P.S. Good luck to those of you who entered Rooglewood Press's <i>Five Magic Spindles</i> contest! I can't wait to see the winners' names tomorrow. </div>
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Rachel Heffingtonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08383034249438542111noreply@blogger.com7tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6863271505161273073.post-81288682292322633792016-02-22T03:00:00.000-05:002016-02-22T03:00:06.807-05:00In Memory of Harper Lee<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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Most of you (all of you) have heard that Harper Lee, author of <i>To Kill a Mockingbird</i>, died last week. I almost said "beloved author" but that isn't exactly true. It would be truer to say that her book was beloved, because Lee preferred to stay out of it almost entirely. Only rarely would Lee submit to an interview, and even then she preferred to be selective in what she showed of herself. I don't fault her for that - I think by the sheer fact that she gave us so little of herself and, really, so little of her talents, makes what we do have that much more precious. For so long we only had <i>To Kill a Mockingbird</i>. Recently added to that is <i>Go Set a Watchman. </i>I've read the former many times. I enjoyed the latter. At times like these, I wonder: how did Harper Lee manage to do what she did in her debut novel? Atticus Finch...I mean honestly. Can you imagine a fuller, more admirable, richer character than that? I can't. I love the world of Maycomb. It's tiny and limited and specific. It could be everywhere but it can't just be anywhere. It's the American South and Harper Lee wrote about it as only a true American Southerner could.<br />
I don't read much "modern" American fiction, actually. My earliest diet was the classic set written in the eighteen-hundreds. You know, the usual <i>Anne of Green Gables</i>, all of Louisa May Alcott, and so forth. From there I jumped to Lewis and Tolkien, bashed through half of Dickens' novels, and took three tries (and, finally, success) fording through <i>Les Miserables</i>. The Brontes, Austen, Gaskell, and Sir Walter Scott have each had their share of space on my shelves. Wodehouse, Henry James, Dorothy Sayers, and James Herriot have had their say. I'm the veritable property of the Brits and pre-modernity Americans at this point. So to say that I'm well-versed in American fiction would be a straight-forward lie. I don't pretend to be up on my American fiction. I don't think you have to be up on your American fiction to appreciate what Harper Lee did with <i>To Kill a Mockingbird</i>. If writers only improve with time and practice, I'm sorry Lee didn't write more. <i>Almost </i>sorry, though. Because if she was going to be a one-shot wonder, she used her chance well. She gave Americans a novel to conjure with, and influenced so many, many people with her story. What more could you want as a writer?<br />
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I hope you'll all join me in remembering Harper Lee and the fine legacy she left American fiction. If you'd like, leave your favorite <i>To Kill A Mockingbird</i> or <i>Go Set a Watchman</i> quote in the comments below as a little memorial to the author who left us Atticus, Scout, Jem, Dill, Calpurnia, and the rest. Rest in peace, Harper Lee.Rachel Heffingtonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08383034249438542111noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6863271505161273073.post-54780911792837818632016-02-08T03:30:00.000-05:002016-02-08T03:30:07.167-05:00Lyrics: Manhattan<div>
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I have recently taken to copying down lyrics to songs I love and really taking the time to relish the words and their meanings. Sometimes I come across a song I love and though I don't identify with the exact scenario laid out in the song's story, I treasure it all the same. Maybe it's the words themselves or the way they sound when combined with the music. Maybe it's just the fact that somewhere deep inside, I know I could feel this way, or that I have felt this way; the details are just different. Regardless of the real explanation, I love the power of music to sway and gentle me or rev me up. A couple weeks ago when we got #Jonas2016 and were buried under days of winter weather, “Manhattan” by Sara Bareilles kept me company as the perfect, wistful, snow-day song. Enjoy.</div>
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"Manhattan"</div>
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by Sara Bareilles</div>
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You can have Manhattan</div>
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I know it's for the best</div>
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I'll gather up the avenues</div>
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And leave them on your doorstep</div>
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And I'll tip toe away</div>
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So you won't have to say</div>
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You heard me leave</div>
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You can have Manhattan</div>
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I know it's what you want</div>
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The bustle and the buildings</div>
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The weather in the fall</div>
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And I'll bow out of place</div>
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To save you some space</div>
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For somebody new</div>
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You can have Manhattan</div>
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Cause I can't have you</div>
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Ahhhhh</div>
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You can have Manhattan</div>
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The one we used to share</div>
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The one where we were laughing</div>
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And drunk on just being there</div>
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Hang on to the reverie</div>
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Could you do that for me?</div>
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Cause I'm just too sad to</div>
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<br /></div>
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You can have Manhattan</div>
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Cause I can't have you</div>
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<br /></div>
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And so it goes</div>
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One foot after the other</div>
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Til black and white begin to color in</div>
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And I know</div>
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That holding us in place</div>
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Is simply fear of what's already changed</div>
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Ahhhhh</div>
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You can have Manhattan</div>
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I'll settle for the beach</div>
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And sunsets facing westward</div>
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With sand beneath my feet</div>
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I'll wish this away</div>
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Dismissing the days</div>
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When I was one half of two</div>
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You can have Manhattan</div>
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Cause I can't have you</div>
</div>
Rachel Heffingtonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08383034249438542111noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6863271505161273073.post-60617984535596926322016-02-01T04:00:00.000-05:002016-02-01T04:00:17.665-05:00Weaver Birds Aren't My Area of ExpertiseJust a bit of writing I did for fun. I feel like I hit my best stride when writing fiction for children, even though I've never pursued that avenue farther than "just for fun." I've been pecking away at this the past few days as the mood strikes me and I figured I would share it with you to help you, in turn, pass the time. Happy Monday, darlings!<br />
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<i>An Untitled Story (With Birds)</i></div>
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by Rachel Heffington</div>
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“The world, my
dear, is very full of things you shouldn't touch.” Miss Crust's
voice curled back on itself, purring. She pulled her crotchety old
fingers through Maribelle's hair.</div>
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“Ow!” Maribelle
yowled. She didn't think Miss Crust pulled her hair on purpose, but
she certainly didn't <i>not </i>pull it on purpose. That was the
point on which Maribelle took issue with her nurse.</div>
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“Is it my fault
if you got half a jar of molasses stuck in it? Your hair's more
tangled than a weaver-bird's nest.”</div>
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Maribelle wouldn't
know. Weaver birds weren't her area of expertise, though they were
her father's and Miss Crust's. Her father and Miss Crust were very
well-known ornithologists – bird people. They were the sort of
important people other important people came to if they had questions
about puffin migration (“Do puffins migrate?”) or parrot-speech
(“Just how many words can the average parrot learn in its
lifetime?”) or the habits of displaced bluebirds. How Miss Crust
went from studying birds to untangling Maribelle's hair, Maribelle
didn't know. She wasn't quite sure where her father had picked up
Miss Crust. Miss Crust just had always been. Maribelle couldn't
remember a time when Miss Crust hadn't been part of life at 34
Bleaking Street. In her earliest memories there was sunlight, plenty
of dust-motes swirling glitter-like through the beams, and Miss
Crust. Funny enough, there was never a memory of a mother. Just Miss
Crust, Assisting. She was very good at Assistance – Assisting
Father with bird-work and Maribelle with tangled hair and
grammar-work and stains on the fronts of her dresses. Sometimes
Maribelle thought she might like to do with a bit less Assistance.
Maybe only on Tuesdays, because Tuesdays generally weren't the best
day of the week. Miss Crust could be on-call the rest of the time and
only Assist when Maribelle really wanted her.</div>
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“What happened to
my mother?” Maribelle asked suddenly. Miss Crust's finger twitched
through Maribelle's hair, not in a surprised way but in a “<i>Dear
heavens, this again</i>?” way.</div>
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“Died,” Miss
Crust answered.</div>
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“From what?” Of
course she knew – galloping consumption – but it was needful to
hear it again, just to remind her that there <i>had </i>been a mother
once upon a time. It bothered Maribelle sometimes, how often she
nearly forgot most kids had two parents.</div>
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Here it came -
</div>
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“Galloping
consumption,” Miss Crust said.</div>
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There it was.</div>
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“Now you,” she
pulled Maribelle upright off the stool and smacked her bottom, “get
downstairs. Your father wants to speak with you before he leaves.”</div>
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Glad to be free of
the dreadful hairbrush, Maribelle skibbled out the nursery door and
wandered down their great big staircase, pausing on her favorite
steps as she went. Her favorite steps were as follows:</div>
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twentieth,</div>
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sixteenth,</div>
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eighth.</div>
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The reasons why
were these:</div>
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The twentieth was
the step at the landing with a peculiar, round window looking out
onto a bit of scrappy yard and a trashcan that always had a cat of
some color turned upside down, fishing for something inside it.</div>
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The sixteenth step
was exactly halfway which, as anyone can tell you, is a special
place.</div>
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And the eighth step
was the step whereupon Maribelle's front teeth had been knocked out
when she tripped on it two years ago. There had been no other six
year old girls missing <i>both</i> their front teeth that year so
though it had given her a bit of lisp, Maribelle thought the
distinction quite worth the trouble of pronouncing “stork,”
“sausage,” and other like words.</div>
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Maribelle tromped
into Father's study without knocking. She never knocked, on
principle. People seemed to stop doing interesting things when you
knocked first. It was much more gratifying to throw open a door and
see someone look like they'd seen a ghost. Maybe you'd see where they
hid those scrumptious chocolates, or maybe you'd hear things they
wouldn't otherwise have told a little girl. And Maribelle did very
much like to know. Knowing was probably the thing she liked most in
the world, besides maybe chocolate ice cream and splashing in puddles
barefoot when she ought to have worn boots.</div>
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Father sat at his
desk, balding head between his bird-claw hands. He looked up as she
came in. Pale gray daylight flashed at her off the little round
lenses of his glasses.</div>
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“Hi,” Maribelle
offered.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 0.2in;">
“Oh. Hello,
Maribelle.”</div>
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“Miss Crust said
you wanted me?”</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 0.2in;">
Father perked up a
little and ran his fingers through his hair. Two grayish-black puffs
of it stuck out on either side of his head and made him look like a
ruffled owl. The top of his head was utterly bald. “Just so, my
dearling.”</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 0.2in;">
When he put out his
hand, she walked to him and settled her little palm in his bigger
one. Hot. Dry. Shaky. That was Father's hand. Not liking to keep hers
there very long, Maribelle gave Father a quick smile and put her hand
in her pocket where he wouldn't think to ask for it again.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 0.2in;">
“Been studyin'
birds?” she inquired.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 0.2in;">
“Oh, hrm. Birds,
birds. Is there anything like birds in the world?” Father's lenses
flashed again and his smile was a little less hampered than usual. He
<i>did</i> so like birds.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 0.2in;">
Maribelle wanted to
help him in any way she could to not seem so picked-over and trembly.
“Well, Miss Crust says there was a sort of dinosaur way back in the
dinosaur-days that <i>flew</i> like a bird.” It mightn't help much
but Father might find it interesting, and that would at least
distract him from whatever it was he worried over.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 0.2in;">
“Oh, ha!”
Father chortled. “Ha! Ha!”</div>
<br />
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 0.2in;">
Like a jay,
Maribelle thought. Crisp and short and unaccustomed. She liked to
think of Father as all sorts of birds. He laughed like a jay and
looked like an owl. He walked like a heron and spoke like a wren in
terse, tentative chirps. She liked to watch him and he liked to watch
birds. It helped to pass the time in the few months of the year when they weren't bopping around the Congo or Peru or someplace.</div>
Rachel Heffingtonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08383034249438542111noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6863271505161273073.post-81492373314042292602016-01-25T03:00:00.000-05:002016-01-25T03:00:05.143-05:00The Extrovert As Writer<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://s-media-cache-ak0.pinimg.com/736x/b7/f1/42/b7f142fd9d9126c0b40776d7136bba02.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://s-media-cache-ak0.pinimg.com/736x/b7/f1/42/b7f142fd9d9126c0b40776d7136bba02.jpg" width="321" /></a></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
When it comes to “ease of peeling
away from real life to write,” the extroverted writer is at a
distinct disadvantage. To begin with, we defy the traditional
stereotype of writers being quiet, reserved individuals who observe
life at a distance and go home to discover rich depths in their souls
and write about it. Because stereotypes are often based, in the main,
off truth, this means that the majority of our fellow writers won't
empathize with our wiring. They won't understand how hard it is to
cut the chatter and buckle down to a writing session. To the
extroverted writer, peeling away from social life and other humans'
presence is quite an effort before we've even opened a Word document
to begin pouring more energy into our WIP. To leave the presence of
other humans means to cut ourselves off from our “charger” so,
unlike the introverted writer, being alone is not rejuvenation, it is
slow (and sometimes rapid) depletion.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
As an extrovert, the way we experience
life is very different from the majority of other writers. Rather
than writing out of careful observation and analysis of the world
without, the extroverted writer builds his work out of a plethora of
personal experiences. In the words of Anais Nin, we “write to taste
life twice.” And in order to taste it twice, we jump at the chance
to taste it at all. Any bottle, any flavor, any way. We want to live.
Later, we'll write, but for now to live is the thing. It is easy to
become wrapped up in tasting once. It is easy to choose to continue
tasting, rather than to savor the flavors and mellow them into a
literary vintage because, I don't know, we might miss the most savory
experience yet if we've pulled away and stopped tasting for a time!</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
I can see many of your faces bent in
puzzlement and I freely admit that the extroverted writer is somewhat
of a unicorn. At the time of writing this article, of the seventeen
writers who responded to the question on Facebook twelve were
self-identified introverts and three were ambiverts. Only two of the
self-proclaimed writers define themselves as thoroughly extroverted.
I don't pretend to be apt with numbers and statistics, but it is
fairly easy to see that only two out of seventeen in the surveyed
writing population would identify as extroverts. When I look at it
from the logical angle, it makes total sense: what sort of person has
the most to say? He who has hitherto said the least. And who speaks
in social situations less than your average, observing introvert?
Introverts crave quiet, if not solitude, and such conditions are
naturally more welcoming to the Muses who don't feel pushed out by
the Life of the Party already abiding in the house. Introvert
writers, are, in my opinion, the real MVPs.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<i>Great</i>, my fellow extroverts are
thinking, <i>is there any hope for me</i>? I am here to tell you
that, yes, thankfully there is hope – quite a lot of it. Here is a
list of things the extroverted writer is very, very good at:</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<i>Writing authentic dialog </i>–
extroverts are experts at conversation. It only makes sense that we'd
be able to translate this capacity into writing. In this respect,
your chat 'em up is a lovely, pre-forged tool for hacking through the
forest of traditional filler dialogue. You know where you're going
with this.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<i>Including vibrant details </i>–
one advantage of living on the go and tasting lots of life, is that
you have much to give back. You walk into a new place and take
everything in, scanning the environment for every possible
conversation, adventure, and interaction and then systematically
sampling them all. An introvert will go into the new place, pick a
chair, sit down, and observe everything within that corner of the
room. Use your “birds eye view” to pick out details the
stationery observer misses and include them in your fiction.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<i>Writing from personal stories and
experiences </i>– the more people you meet, the more places you go,
the more first-hand reconnaissance you'll have as lumber for building
your stories. When you pair your affability with question-asking,
you'll often be rewarded with the gift of hearing peoples'
stories...and I can affirm the fact that truth is often stranger than
fiction. In addition to getting accounts from those you meet, you'll
also be far more likely to meet with your own adventures than you
would be at home on your Macbook, googling the effects of the Black
Plague and what they mean for modernity.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<i>Writing believable characters </i>–
though the extroverted writer might have to work harder to plumb the
depths of human experience (after all, we tend to not think as
sensitively as an introvert might), when we harness our considerable
energy and brainpower, we are able to understand as thoroughly as any
classic deep-thinker. In fact, our understanding of a person or
character will often be very complex because the knowledge is paired
with deep and often intuitive care for the person or character.
Writing them, therefore, is a chance to interact a second time with
someone of whom we are very fond and which extrovert will not
absolutely pour out her soul for that?</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<i>Lending prose new paint </i>–
because extroverts are usually possessed of excellent people skills,
we are good at gauging how our words will affect our readership and
tailoring them to exact a particular reaction. We're accustomed to
using this skill in daily life as we interact with people and it is
therefore easy for the extroverted writer to foresee readers'
reactions and curate a certain tone to court the projected reaction.
I love nothing better than writing a piece in a particular voice for
a particular reaction and hearing feedback from readers that affirms
my ability to achieve the goal I had in mind. This ability is
especially helpful in journalism, blogging, and non-fiction, as it
can be hard for some personality types to state the facts from any
angle but straight-on. Not so for the blendable, bendable eight-armed
extrovert! Octipi, unite!</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<br />
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
I hope that my fellow extroverted
writers (if such there be) will find themselves refreshed and
inspired by this list. We may not be as naturally equipped as the
amazing introverts for the writers' life, but we also have a few
super-powers of our own. When paired with determination and a daily
hour sector'd off strictly for no-contact writing, the extrovert can
overcome his native sociability and become the writer he has always
wished to be. Then, when the word-count goal is met, it's back to
hobnobbing with us. We have people to meet and places to see.</div>
Rachel Heffingtonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08383034249438542111noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6863271505161273073.post-13024022978746601272016-01-18T03:00:00.000-05:002016-01-18T03:00:20.555-05:00Lion-PesteredOne change I've already implemented into my writing strategy this year is to keep a journal. That way, even if schedules conspire against me being able to get in any actual writing time, I can still make sure I've written something. Another upside is that I get to find myself hilarious and occasionally make sense of life as a by-product. How do you keep a journal? For me, I've begun keeping mine as a sort of art-journal, lyrics-keeper, and first-person factual novel. So take that as you will. I find this format encourages the sort of fiction-creativity I don't get to practice if I'm not writing, while still serving as an outlet for my thoughts and mental-processing. Here, then, is a harmless extraction from a couple weeks ago:<div>
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://s-media-cache-ak0.pinimg.com/736x/26/08/e2/2608e2b1239f714095748cf4b1ab9d78.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="640" src="https://s-media-cache-ak0.pinimg.com/736x/26/08/e2/2608e2b1239f714095748cf4b1ab9d78.jpg" width="426" /></a></div>
<div>
<br /><div>
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<i>(after entering the complete lyrics of Ex-Ambassadors' "Renegades")</i></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<b>January 6, 2016</b></div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
<i>I copied those lyrics at Cure Coffee this afternoon and yes, I was suitably ashamed of how many times I've been there since the new year began. It's a shocking lot. It's late -- nearly 11 -- but I find I'm not super sleepy yet and I've been lying in bed with my head skibbling from one thought to the next. Mama was in my room relating a story so she tucked me in -- SO LONG SINCE THAT HAPPENED -- but I wanted to write and anyway I'm hot on account of this plush blanket that seems to be woven of MAGMA or something, it's so pulsing with heat. I flicked on the closet light and presently I will bestir myself enough to turn on the fan. Notice my strong aversion to throwing off the covers? I like to "sniggle up," as Levi has it.</i></div>
<div>
<i><br /></i></div>
<div>
<i>Today was my day off so I spent the AM tidying up the room and water-color sketching a pommelo for the blog, then caught a couple hours of wifi work at Starbucks. One of the hitherto cross-at-me baristas made a foam heart in my latte so I felt all kinds of undying affection for her. No, but she really meant to be nice just for me!</i></div>
<div>
<i><br /></i></div>
<div>
<i>IS THIS REMORSE?</i></div>
<div>
<i><br /></i></div>
<div>
<i>Then, when we got home (Anna'd gone out with me), Mama wanted to space out with us. We had "no money" of course (surprise!) so we realized with out membership the Norfolk Zoo is free, so yes: Mama, Anna, and I went to the zoo on a frigid day. We were rewarded with seeing all the usually somnolent big animals being active, though all the cute little ones were either asleep, depressed, or both. </i><i>The elephants were behaving as if they'd got earbuds in, listening to a waltz, and I expect that's the last time I'll ever see them because apparently they're lonely and there are to be no more elephants at the zoo. </i></div>
<div>
<i><br /></i></div>
<div>
<i>I ask you! A zoo with no elephants???</i></div>
<div>
<i><br /></i></div>
<div>
<i>And the lions were actually <u>roaring</u>! I confess, I never before realized how loud a lion's roar can be, and how unearthly sounding. It positively rattled the air and ground. We made our skins crawl deliciously by talking about if one got out, but one didn't so we left. There was hardly anyone else there besides us. Quite fun, actually.</i></div>
<div>
<i><br /></i></div>
<div>
<i>Of course, being so frozen and lion-pestered as we were, coffee was necessary so AWAY TO CURE. I had already had a flat-white this AM so I ordered a pot of strawberry kiwi tea from Will, that interesting barista-man, and thus established that I'm not a dull, predictable girl who gets her almond-milk, skimmed latte each visit. Last time (I quote) I, "flouted all that advice -- I'll have a lavender mocha latte, please." And this time it was tea.</i></div>
<div>
<i><br /></i></div>
<div>
<i>Take that, sir.</i></div>
<div>
<i><br /></i></div>
<div>
<i>I also partook in the most wonderful charcuterie board and none of us knew what half the things were before tasting them and even after had only the vaguest notion of some but I think it was brie & fig-preserves, some salt & pepper cheese, some odorous, strong, lovely cheese, a ginger-balsamic reduction, strong mustard, dill pickle slices, proscioutto (sp?), and salami. And bread a'course.</i></div>
<div>
<i>Mama ordered a de-caff latte and Will brought over a caffeinated one with the PRETTIEST latte art. So he had to take it back and I felt shame but I saw him drink it so oh well. The second one had art just as pretty. I saw my Asian-friend man who studies, like every time I come in. But I've been 3 times in the last week and I live a full hour away so who's the real crazy here?</i></div>
<div>
<i><br /></i></div>
<div>
<i>The store was playing the best vintage/swing/classics playlist so I left a note, knowing Will ( the only barista/waiter-on-duty) would see it.</i></div>
<div>
<i><br /></i></div>
<div>
<i>Immediately after I felt <u>so</u> silly -- <u>why</u> did I do that? *shakes head at self* So silly. On the way back to the car (and Boteourt looked SO charming at sunset!) I popped into Hummingbird Macarons and got a pale blue Earl Grey Tea one but it didn't taste like tea at all -- got lost in the ganache. Still yummy. </i></div>
<div>
<i><br /></i></div>
<div>
<i>I was brave to go in there after the shop girl saw (and smiled at) me tripping on a loose brick and jolting to my balance again. Mad skills.</i></div>
<div>
<i><br /></i></div>
<div>
<i>I am looking back on the first six days of 2016 so far and feeling that I've courted adventure pretty fiercely. I mean, really. I've done a lot. Most of it has been arranged around "Where is it possible to get a good latte?" but hey. (...even in Appomatox.)</i></div>
<div>
<i><br /></i></div>
<div>
<i>I'm sleepy now. I have a coffee date tomorrow with a girl I haven't caught up with since August. More coffee.</i></div>
<div>
<i><br /></i></div>
<div>
<i>What is life?</i></div>
<div>
<i><br /></i></div>
<div>
<i>....what is my <u>coffee bill</u>?</i></div>
<div>
<i><br /></i></div>
<div>
<i>Goodnight.</i></div>
</div>
Rachel Heffingtonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08383034249438542111noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6863271505161273073.post-50870076563971422442016-01-11T06:00:00.000-05:002016-01-11T06:00:13.433-05:00Wordless Puzzling<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<i>//Without words, you may deduce what I have been doing.//</i></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://s-media-cache-ak0.pinimg.com/736x/49/70/42/4970425cd1ce33fb2587de6074f02010.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="480" src="https://s-media-cache-ak0.pinimg.com/736x/49/70/42/4970425cd1ce33fb2587de6074f02010.jpg" width="640" /></a></div>
<br />Rachel Heffingtonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08383034249438542111noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6863271505161273073.post-20896468998205972192016-01-04T02:00:00.000-05:002016-01-04T02:00:09.039-05:00Apologies, Apologies.<div style="margin-bottom: 0in; text-align: center; text-indent: 0.21in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in; text-align: center; text-indent: 0.21in;">
<span style="color: #bf9000;"><b><span style="font-size: x-large;">2015</span></b></span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 0.21in;">
<br />
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 0.21in;">
It wasn't the best year, writing-wise. I suppose everyone means for
“next year” to be the year they actually succeed in whatever it
is they meant to succeed in. But I do mean for 2016 to be a better
year for my writing, whatever that means. If I didn't have a high
word-count in 2015, if I did lose my spot in the mystery I was
supposed to be writing, if I did leave you poor blog-followers
hanging and my reading public wondering if I'd been raptured or
something; if I did all these things and in every other way make
myself and others wonder if I was really serious about this writing
thing, there were some triumphs.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 0.21in;">
<br />
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 0.21in;">
I
wrote <i>The Fox Went Out</i></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 0.21in;">
I
wrote the first draft of <i>The Spindle & The Quee</i>n</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 0.21in;">
I wrote numerous quite-good flash fiction pieces, among which “Swing
It” is my personal favorite</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 0.21in;">
I
was published (and paid for my work) in <i>Fountain Magazine</i></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 0.21in;">
I discovered a way to combine my interest in journalism with my love
for people at my lifestyle blog, Lipstick & Gelato</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 0.21in;">
I read quite a lot of non-fiction among the fiction and kept my mind
sharp with it</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 0.21in;">
I taught my first-grader (nanny-child) how to read</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 0.21in;">
<br />
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 0.21in;">
Though I can chalk up a few things I did accomplish as a writer, I
can no longer hedge around the fact that in this season, <i>writing
is no longer my sole occupation</i>. My job as a nanny has morphed
into my job as a home-school teacher/governess which, among other things,
requires fairly extensive lesson preparation. That means that when I
am not at work and not doing errands and not prepping blog posts and
not traveling and not with my family, I am planning lessons. Writing
has, for now, fallen into a hobby-position. I no longer have the
full-time hours to devote to publicizing, networking, blogging, and
writing that I used to. However, I can't bear to close up shop and
leave my precious writing-blog community just like that. You inspire
and challenge and teach me and I intend to stick it out here on The
Inkpen Authoress. But in order to be better able to keep up with
everyone, <b>a few changes will happen on this blog.</b> I want to
share more of my creative life with you, which means that I can't
share strictly <i>fiction</i>. And since it's always a good idea to
set goals for any business/blog/public, I sketched some out for you
dear, patient people who might still read this blog. 2016 plans for
The Inkpen Authoress include:</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 0.21in;">
<br />
</div>
<ul>
<li><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<b>A
dependable blogging schedule. </b>I
intend to aim at giving you a Post Each Monday. The posts might be
book reviews, author interviews, or posts of my own design. They
might be sharing bits of my writing, or highlighting others'. They
might be posts on the craft of writing, or the challenges of it.
Other Posts You Might See Here: sketches from people-watching, both
artistic and linguistic renderings; journal excerpts; quotes from
books I'm reading; quotes from articles I've written. Anything
literature-centered that has intersected my life and yours. I want
this blog to reflect the morphing of my creative life as I grow as a
woman.
</div>
</li>
<li><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<b>Commitment
to working on my fiction frequently.</b>
I weighed heavily on the side of non-fiction this year, what with
launching Lipstick & Gelato and keeping it up. I have found that
I am good at writing non-fiction, and that I enjoy it immensely, but
I do not intend to leave my fiction-writing behind completely. Not
by a long shot. I will still work on books and publish them, but for
your sanity and mine I am releasing myself from the strictures of
having to publish something every three months.
</div>
</li>
<li><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<b>Publishing
“The Spindle & The Queen.”</b>
Though its name might change, I'm planning to release this Sleeping
Beauty retelling sometime in the early Spring in e-book format! So
you have that to look forward to after Elisabeth Foley and Suzannah
Rowntree publish their wonderful-sounding fairy tales!
</div>
</li>
<li><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<b>Exploring
new avenues and ways to write.</b>
I am happy with the fact that I fell in love with “journalism”
this year. I want to continue to play around with words, polishing
old ways and branching out into completely new varieties. It's part
of the joy of writing: that constant rearranging of language to
aptly express all one feels. I also want to submit both fiction and
non-fiction to various publications and get further experience in
free-lancing.
</div>
</li>
</ul>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
Here's to 2016
being a better year in all ways than the last one! And may we always
find a love for words overpowers even the worst seasons of Writer's
Block!
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<br />
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
Happy New Year,
loves! </div>
Rachel Heffingtonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08383034249438542111noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6863271505161273073.post-25040814069313389542015-12-31T09:57:00.000-05:002015-12-31T09:57:05.806-05:00The Improvement Of Her Mind<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://s-media-cache-ak0.pinimg.com/736x/33/c8/ce/33c8ce9899074d85f991f494307d9ac4.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://s-media-cache-ak0.pinimg.com/736x/33/c8/ce/33c8ce9899074d85f991f494307d9ac4.jpg" width="266" /></a></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
"...<i>by extensive reading</i>." Tradition has it that we do this thing around this time
of year. We look back on the books we read in the past twelve months, and
feel very good about ourselves. At least, I do. The list usually ends
up being longer than I had hoped and it always makes one feel
cultured to see a piece of paper with <i>The Weight of Glory</i> and <i>Psmith,
Journalist</i> chivvying for mention. So without further commentary, my
list:</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<i>Tramp For The Lord </i>by Corrie Ten
Boom</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<i>The Weight of Glory </i>by C.S.
Lewis</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<i>The Island of Lost Maps</i> by Miles
Harvey</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<i>The Little White Horse</i> by
Elizabeth Goudge</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<i>Pride and Prejudice</i> by Jane
Austen (reread)</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<i>Undine </i>by Friedrich de la Motte
Fouque</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<i>The Innocence of Father Brown </i>by
G.K. Chesterton</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<i>The Hunger Games</i> by Suzanne
Collins</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<i>Notes From The Tilt-a-Whirl</i> by
N.D. Wilson</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<i>Psmith, Journalist </i>by P.G.
Wodehouse</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<i>Unnatural Death</i> by Dorothy
Sayers</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<i>Mr. Popper's Penguins</i> by the
Atwaters (reread)</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<i>Betsy, Tacy, and Tib </i>by Maud
Hart Lovelace (reread)</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<i>Miss Hickory</i> by Carolyn Sherwin
Bailey (rearead)</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<i>Stuart Little</i> (by “Whatshisface”
is what I had written on my list) (reread)</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<i>True Men And Traitors</i> by David
W. Doyle</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<i>Schindler's List</i> by Thomas
Kenealy</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<i>Go Set A Watchman </i>by Harper Lee</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<i>Wordsmithy</i> by Douglas Wilson</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<i>Cocktail Time</i> by P.G. Wodehouse</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<i>Summer Lightning</i> by P.G.
Wodehouse</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<i>Is Everyone Hanging Out Without Me
(And Other Concerns) </i>by Mindy Kaling</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<i>Always Pack a Party Dress </i>by
Amanda Brooks</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<i>Dearie: The Life of Julia Child</i>
by Bob Spitz</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<i>Why
Not Me?</i> by Mindy Kaling</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<i>How To Get Dressed </i>by Alison
Freer</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<br />
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
My list rounds out with <i>The
Whimsical Christian</i> by Dorothy Sayers, which I will finish
shortly after the new year. I love how, with my governess-ing job
picking up this year, I got to include re-reads of some of my
childhood favorites with the girls! I hope to include a lot more this
coming year. I am also happy with the balance of ten non-fiction
titles out of twenty-four. That's nearly a fifty-percent non-fiction
ratio, which is the highest I think it has ever been, and the
strength of my brain feels it. Hurray for challenges accepted and
completed! I can't wait to see what titles will make it onto my list
for 2016! And now I want to know: <b>what was your favorite book read
this year? </b>For me, I would
choose <i>Always Pack A
Party Dress</i>, which was
basically <i>The Devil Wears
Prada</i> incarnate. Just a
fascinating read for anyone interested in the wide, intricate world
of designer fashion.</div>
Rachel Heffingtonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08383034249438542111noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6863271505161273073.post-63440883913978331662015-12-11T13:51:00.001-05:002015-12-11T13:51:22.198-05:00Yuletide News I do sometimes pop back out of the woodwork to say my piece. Not frequently, but frequently enough to hope some of you remember me, Rachel Heffington, the Inkpen Authoress. I bought a new laptop on Cyber Monday and it should be coming soon, which I find thrilling. New things are obviously not the reason for productivity, but they certainly help one feel like sitting down with the laptop for the old writing sesh. I sent "The Spindle and The Queen" out to several beta readers and have pretty roundly decided I will not be sending it into Rooglewood's contest. Instead, I intend to brush it up, expand it here and there, and publish it myself as an e-book sometime mid-winter. The story, word-count, and ending all suggested I go my own route, so as much as I wish all of you luck in the contest, my Sleeping Beauty retelling will not be making an appearance in <i>Five Magic Spindles</i>. I know many of you will understand. To rest, best of luck! I had the chance to peep at the story of one contestant and I'm quite excited to see who makes the cut and which stories are chosen!<br />
<br />
In the realm of "consumed literature," I've been reading gobs. Both of actress Mindy Kaling's books were gobbled down between a total sum of three days (not constant reading, either). I'm most of the way through a massive biography on Julia Child, which has been so very eye-opening! I'm threading down the path of Charles Dickens's <i>Dombey & Sons</i> when I think of it, and working on a Civil War romance lent to me by author Meghan Gorecki. The only reason I haven't finished that novel yet is because Mindy Kaling happened. Excuses.<br />
<br />
I hope/plan to write another Christmas story this year. In fact, I know I will because I've yet to pass a year when the need to Write Something hasn't seized me by the throat halfway through December. If you're new to the blog, or just want a healthy dose of the feel-goods, might I point you in the way of last year's story, "John Out-the-Window" - it's guaranteed to make you smile. The first part (and all the parts following) can be found by following <a href="http://www.theinkpenauthoress.com/search/label/john%20out-the-window">this link</a>. Gosh, I loved that story.<br />
<br />
The most fantastic piece of information I have to announce, though, is the fact that I recently returned from a visit to my fellow "slipper sister," Clara Diane Thompson. We connected quite well over a group video-chat hosted by author <a href="https://www.google.com/url?sa=t&rct=j&q=&esrc=s&source=web&cd=1&cad=rja&uact=8&ved=0ahUKEwivhOe6u9TJAhUj4IMKHc4dBeUQFggcMAA&url=http%3A%2F%2Fshonnaslayton.com%2F&usg=AFQjCNHW1igu9GBLXcNgy8YlwzjnXaaeQQ&sig2=zHCJYQ-G-ljfpeDRNyyGtw&bvm=bv.109395566,d.eWE">Shonna Slayton </a>, kept up afterward, and have continued to grow a wonderful friendship. Clara is just as amazing in person as she seemed to be over FaceTime and emails, and I treasured our five days together. When not writing, Clara works full-time as the sort of events/volunteer coordinator for a sprawling retirement center, which meant that I got to tail her at work one day and give makeovers to all of the precious old ladies. I also got to run their book club for the afternoon! Clara asked me to read one of my short stories and I'm telling you, it's harder than you'd think to find a short enough piece of fiction that is also complete/cheerful enough to read to residents at a nursing home! I enjoyed myself so much, though, and talk of my stories soon became talk of which authors and books were special to the residents. They fished around for memory of <i>Pride & Prejudice</i>'s plot and reminisced about waiting for each Nancy Drew mystery to come out. What fun times we had...though one of the ladies sagely suggested I might record myself reading aloud sometime and listen to it to see places I could improve my enunciation and slow my speed so that someone nearly deaf would have an easier time following along. I laughed. And agreed. I cannot wait to see Clara again sometime! She really is darling.<br />
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<br />
I want to know about you now! How did NaNoWriMo treat all of you? And what is your favorite Christmas story? I foresee my annual re-read of <i>The Christmas Carol </i>in the near future!Rachel Heffingtonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08383034249438542111noreply@blogger.com8tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6863271505161273073.post-81030863023009850402015-11-11T12:47:00.000-05:002015-11-11T12:47:18.351-05:00Maybe Next Time: Flash Fiction OfferingThis week, between hectic days at work, I wrote a short little flash-fiction. I had thoughts of sending it off into the wide world someplace and seeing if it would catch thirty dollars in some magazine, and then I realized ain't nobody got time fo' that before Thanksgiving, so instead I'm letting you read it. This was a fun exercise in an unusual (for me) POV. And if you're wondering, though the events are fictionalized, the tone and certain facts are definitely autobiographical. This is, in short, how it feels to walk downtown as Rachel Heffington. Ciao, ciao.<br />
<br />
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<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-size: large;">///</span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .25in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";">Here’s
the problem with being idealistic:<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .25in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";">You
always hope. Always. And when things don’t turn out your way, it’s almost
pitiful how faithfully you smile and shrug. “Maybe next time.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .25in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";">And
your Experience says, “Yeah. Sure.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .25in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";">And
your Idealism says, “Yeah, sure!”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .25in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";">So
this is why you find yourself (having locked your keys in your car by accident in
a downtown parking garage) instead of cursing, thinking, “Hey, an inconvenience
is just an adventure wrongly considered, right?” This is why you smile
expectantly at the next car that passes, hoping they will notice your
predicament.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .25in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";">They
don’t.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .25in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";">Maybe
next time.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .25in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";">You’ve
got your purse, though, and your outfit is a power-house itself and there is a
Place to Be, so let’s not allow imprisoned keys to set the afternoon counter-clockwise.
You shove off the side of your car and swing your purse higher up your
shoulder, headed toward the North stairs. The strap catches and dumps the
contents of your purse’s outer pocket into the center lane of the parking
garage. A BMW purrs up the ramp. It’s either dive for your Yves St. Laurent
lipstick or let him run it into a woebegone, cinnamon-colored smear on the second-level
ramp.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .25in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";">With
the skill of a gold-medalling gymnast, you dart into the path of the oncoming
Beemer, grab for the lipstick, and tumble to the other side. The driver blares
his horn and throws his hands up, voicing everyone’s disbelief:<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .25in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";">“What
the <i>heck</i>, woman?”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .25in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";">Or
some curried variation of the phrase.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .25in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";"> The horn-blast pierces back on itself as you
check: all limbs accounted for. You go, girl. High-heels intact and everything.
You smile and wave at the car’s taillights and reach the North stairs
unaccosted. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .25in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";">Take
the two flights down.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .25in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";">Exit
on the quiet side of the street.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .25in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";">There’s
a light mist in town. It isn’t exactly coming down thick enough to warrant the
umbrella you left in the (locked) car, but it’s going to settle in a fine mesh
on your hair, pulling it into damp, clinging tendrils. You had wanted to look
especially polished. Well, you lost that one.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .25in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";">Two
businessmen round the corner as you approach. You notice the vintage make of
the taller one’s briefcase, the slim cut of his suit, the way his pocket-square
matches his eyes. The broad set of his shoulders hunched against the
vaguely-chill damp; his good hair and supremely wonderful beard. But it’s the
compact, razor-burnt member of the pair who gives you a preoccupied smile. You
return the expression, knowing full well his heart wasn’t in it. Still, a smile
from a stranger is valuable, even though you might have been a mildly pleasant
stocks-report for all the meaning in it.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .25in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";">Hurry
now. Skitter around the corner, past your favorite restaurant, scents of anise,
cumin, coriander, Chinese five-spice, and teriyaki wrapping exotic hands around
your stomach. You flip the collar of your trench against the mist and hunger,
wishing again for a real, live Burberry and a festive meal with friends.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .25in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";">You
slowly pass your soul-mate store, tempting you with blank cards and paper for
perfectly wrapping a yet-to-be-purchased gift for a yet-to-be-discovered
Someone…dinner party invitations; placemats; card-cases; ink; cranberry-colored
tassels. What you would do with a tassel doesn’t matter. You want one. You’ll
find a use for it.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .25in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";">You
wait for a string of fancy sports cars to finish their intricate four-way
stop-sign dance and then hazard your chances getting across the intersection.
After all, <i>you</i> don’t want to end up a
woebegone, cinnamon-colored smear in the pavement. Plenty of people are
gathered around the fountains in the Town Square as you flit by. You know you
shouldn’t really stare at the couple having their date in the table at that
picture- window, but you can’t help a quick peek. Bad news: they look up at
you. The man laughs. His date narrows her eyes. Oh well. You cross again at the
haberdashery store with its emblem of the Golden Fleece. Yeah, you’d need the
corner market on the entire Golden Fleece <i>trade</i>
to afford anything in there, but someday. <i>Someday</i>.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .25in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";">Despite
that Place to Be, you pause to view the model in the show-window and your hand
automatically slides up this side of the glass to touch his cashmere sweater,
to fix his tie, to rest your palm on his chest and inhale the scent of his
cologne. Some shop-girl with civil eyes and devastating cheekbones steps into
the case and fixes the tie for you. So he, also, belongs to someone else.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .25in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";">They
all do.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .25in;">
<i><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";">Maybe next time</span></i><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";">.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .25in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";">You
duck against the mist that has somehow become a rain and press on through more
businessmen in tailored suits, more women thinner, chicer, more successful in
their careers than you, skirt a few
hopefuls dancing hip-hop to a beat straining from a rattled boom-box. A smile
for them all. They don’t notice. Not most of them. But that’s okay. Smiles are
cheap currency. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .25in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";">At
last you’ve arrived. The sign ahead shines bleary-eyed against the rain and you
hush into the simple, glass-fronted shop. Here, it is warm and dry. The others
inside blink up against the dampness you brought. Laughter swells inside as you
wring out your ruined hair and feel your heart pushing eagerly against your
breast-bone. <i>Adventure. Adventure.
Adventure</i>, it beats.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .25in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";">“You’re
late,” the others say in their several, silent ways.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .25in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";">You
laugh and whisper to no one, to everyone, “What’s new?”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .25in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";">“Meet
any dashing strangers this week?” a girl asks from the far side of her earl
grey latte. In the foam is drawn a plumy feather.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .25in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";">“Not
a one.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .25in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";">She
sips her drink. Pewter daylight pings off her French manicure. “Pity.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .25in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";">“Uh,
yeah.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .25in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";">You
order a chai tea latte made with whole milk instead of water and wait as the
new barista draws the foam. Will he make a string of hearts or a leaf or the
latte-cat you’ve waited for your entire coffee-drinking life? He sloshes the
cup across the bar and you catch it, scalding-hot against your palms.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .25in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";">“Thanks.”
Then you see he didn’t know how to make the art, or didn’t bother to. Your foam
is looking spectacularly like, well, foam…with a careless brown blob in the
center. No leaf, no feather, no hearts. Definitely no cat.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .25in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";">Your
heart settles into its everyday promise:<i>.
Maybe next time</i>.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .25in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";">Carefully,
so as not the spoil the art-that-wasn’t, you carry your latte to the corner
booth. The booth that’s always empty every Thursday afternoon around four; the
time you come. In you slide, down you slip, and even though it’ll come off on
the cup’s rim, you swipe on some of the rescued lipstick. You never can tell
when you’ll meet with an adventure.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .25in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";">Suddenly,
the door jangles open and a swath of damp air matches itself against the back
of your neck. Confident steps stride to the counter. The little hairs on your
arms stand up tall. Something big just came through that door. You lift your
coffee and sip, rotating just enough to watch the newcomer without it appearing
to be your sole mission. Italian-looking shoes. Slim-fit, navy slacks. A
trench-coat, belt knotted behind. A <i>trilby</i>,
for lawd’s sake.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .25in;">
<i><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";">Adventure,
adventure, adventure</span></i><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";">.
<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .25in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";">He
orders black coffee, extra hot, takes one hand out of his pocket and pays for
it. As he waits for the coffee, he surveys the crowd in the shop, like he’s a
regular and they’re the newcomers, drumming the fingers of his right hand on
the polished cherry bar. Polished till it gleams almost as dark as his hair.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .25in;">
<i><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";">Bluffing,</span></i><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";"> you think. You’ve never seen him
here on a Thursday at four.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .25in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";">As
if he heard that thought, his gaze roves to you. The eyes crinkle and a grin
–the best kind of grin—quirks at the corners of his mouth and finally cracks
wide open, for you. He gives a two-fingered salute and you contemplate the
consequence of trying to vanish into your latte.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .25in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";">“Black
coffee, extra hot, for Grady?” bawls the barista.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .25in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";">He
grins again, murmurs thanks, and sips his coffee. You decide it should be
illegal for anyone’s jaw to do what his jaw just did. And just at the point
when you’re beginning to wonder whether he’s a doctor or a lawyer (we can probably
rule out Indian chief), he slides into the booth across from you, plunks down
his coffee cup, and says:<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .25in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";">“Mind
if I sit here? Everywhere else is taken.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .25in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";">You
peer around the shop. Gosh, it’s true. You’re thankful for the decision to add
lipstick and deftly rub off the evidence from the edge of your for-here mug.
But before you have a chance to say anything even mildly intelligent, he takes
his other hand from his pocket and clasps both around the mug.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .25in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";">“Chilly
out there, isn’t it?” he remarks. Tiny drops of silver cling to his lapels, his
shoulders, even his finely-etched face.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .25in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";">You
nod, your heart a tiny, startled lump of chilliness itself.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .25in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";">“Didn’t
expect it to start pouring like that.” He taps the fingers of his left hand
against the mug, wedding ring clinking fatefully, as he stares out at the rain.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .25in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";">So
he, also, belongs to someone else.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .25in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";">They
all do.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .25in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";">And
just like that, your heart begins to chug again, pulling itself back on the
tracks, steaming along through life to the rail-song, <i>Adventure, adventure, adventure</i>. Somehow you make small-talk and he
finishes his coffee and you finish your latte and he leaves and nothing is
different than any other time in your young, long life except that maybe you’ll
put him in a book someplace.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .25in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";">For
a second, you thought it had happened.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .25in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";">You’re
a little ashamed of having thought it was happening. Wryly, you notice how
you’ve been knotting your hands in your lap, biting your bottom lip. You stop
all that. There’s always someday.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .25in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";">Probably
someday an adventure will come your way and the dashing stranger <i>won’t</i> be married and maybe you’ll buy a
coat and you’ll find a twenty in the outside pocket and perhaps Diane von
Furstenburg will start making dresses in a size fourteen and maybe, you know,
someone will give you an inheritance or you’ll go on a road-trip and end up by
mistake in a town called Accident. It happens, you know.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .25in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";">You
grab your purse, slide out of the booth, and return the lipstick-stained mug to
the dish-rack. You wave goodbye to the girl with the foamy feather and step
back into the rain, smiling again at the people who don’t notice.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .25in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";">Maybe
next time.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .25in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";">And
at any rate, there’s still the matter of what to do about your keys.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
Rachel Heffingtonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08383034249438542111noreply@blogger.com7tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6863271505161273073.post-38585092306434528512015-11-05T03:00:00.000-05:002015-11-05T03:00:10.230-05:00The Fifth of November: Celebrating The Fallow Year<blockquote class="tr_bq">
<a href="https://s-media-cache-ak0.pinimg.com/736x/30/b4/63/30b46360b8b6a177974c7c4c7a5815b8.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="640" src="https://s-media-cache-ak0.pinimg.com/736x/30/b4/63/30b46360b8b6a177974c7c4c7a5815b8.jpg" width="424" /></a>"Read. Read constantly. Read the kind of stuff you wish you could write. Read until your brain creaks. Tolkien said that his ideas sprang up from the leaf mold of his mind: your readings are the trees where your fallen leave would come from."</blockquote>
<br />
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
"The first thing is that writers should be voracious readers. We live in a narcissistic age, which means that many want to have the praise that comes from <i>having</i> read, without the antecedent labor of actually reading. Wanting to write without reading is like wanting to grind flour without gathering wheat, like wanting to make boards without logging, and like wanting to have a Mississippi Delta without any tributaries somewhere in Minnesota. Output requires intake, and literary output requires literary intake."</blockquote>
<br />
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
"Read like a reader and not like someone cramming for a test. If you try to wring every book out like it was a washcloth full of information (and nothing but information), all you will do is slow yourself down to a useless pace. Go for total tonnage, and read like someone who will forget most of it...Most of what is shaping you in the course of your reading you will not be able to remember. The most formative years of my life were the first five, and if those years were to be evaluated on the basis of my ability to pass a test on them, the conclusion would be that nothing important happened then, which would be false. The fact that you can't remember things doesn't mean that you haven't been shaped by them."</blockquote>
<br />
<br />
All of these very, very excellent quotes come from a slim little volume by Douglas Wilson titled <i>Wordsmithy</i>. I was given this book in the coffee shop I'm sitting in now. It was a gift from a friend who, I hope, didn't feel like giving it to me because she could sense my drought. I must confess the year 2014 was a year of output. Massive output. I published two novels and a novella, started a new job, and worked my precious little butt off. The understandable assumption was that the year 2015 would be the same. It was not, however. 2015 has been a year of immense personal schedules. The girls I mainly nannied in 2014 I am now schooling, which adds a dimension and a half. I now plan their lessons, teach them, and have had the huge privilege of seeing them go from their alphabet to real books, explaining our ridiculous English language, and showing them the world, such as it is. This year I have also rediscovered my love of reading.I'm sorry to say that I forgot about it for a little while. Not about my love of stories - that never faded. But of how easy and delicious it is to lose oneself in a book. To nose so deeply into the pages and words and characters that one forgets present constraints. Is it summer? Is it autumn? Does it rain outside or are we having dry weather?<br />
I forgot about this love because I consciously kept myself in. I am a book drunkard. I give myself up entirely to the story and if I lose myself early in the day, I am lost until whatsoever time the book has coughed me up ashore like a word-soaked Jonah. Knowing this about myself, I was careful not to get too entangled in a book. I only read if I deemed I had time to read. And, predictably, my word output shriveled. If I had no time to read, I certainly had no time to write and here was the vicious cycle. Friends, however, gave me books for my birthday. I visited the Holocaust Museum in Washington D.C. and bought a couple more. Pretty soon I had a stack of unread books waiting on my shelf. Waiting for that day when I had "time to read." The temptation was, quite simply, too much. Since summer began, I have given into my passion and picked up Wodehouse's <i>Summer Lightning</i>. I don't have hours upon hours to read - I am a busy working woman. Still, I elbowed other things to <i>make</i> time. From <i>Summer Lightning</i>, it was a short step to swallowing <i>Schindler's List</i> piecemeal between bouts of more Wodehouse. Harper Lee's <i>Go Set A Watchman</i> grabbed me and shook me by the throat as I soared through it in two or three days, and <i>Wordsmithy</i> dribbled through my fingers as well.<i> Cocktail Time</i> rounded to a close and <i>Blandings Castle </i>was waiting, all uncracked-spine and crisp pages. And do you know what? I found a piece of myself that had gone into hibernation. Ever so slowly, I'm coaxing her back out. I <i>do</i> have time to read. I can choose to put aside my phone, to postpone that drawing commission, or to go to bed a little early and pick up a book before sleep. I can choose to spend my evening reading rather than watching <i>White Collar</i> or <i>The West Wing</i>, as painful as that choice is.<br />
<br />
Reading opens massive, massive worlds. How could I ever have let it go? Since picking my books back up, I have found that my mind is brighter. I am not at a loss for things on which to think. Words spring readily to mind. I've almost finished the first draft of my story for the <i>Five Magic Spindles</i> contest with the overflow. But you know what? The paradigm shift was as subtle as it was important: <b>I did not read to turn the words like so much straw into WIP gold</b>. I read for reading's sake; for the sake of losing myself in another world for what might be half an hour, or a full afternoon. I found the joy again of diving so deep that when I emerged, I had to shake myself a bit and look about and remember where and whom I was.<br />
<br />
Farmers rotate crops so that a given piece of ground is not stripped of a particular nutrient; different crops suck different things from the soil. And though the farmers, by rotating the variety of crops grown on that piece of ground, can keep the soil fairly healthy and thriving, fallow years are necessary. A year of rest for the soil. A year of building up again the depleted stocks, of fertilizing the ground and waiting. A year where nothing will grow that is lucrative, but wild-flowers and grasses will knit its wounded, harrowed soul back together, leaving that field fresh-faced and ready for the following spring. 2014 was my insanely productive year. 2015 has been my fallow year. But a fallow year is necessary, and I will not apologize for (unofficially) taking it. I will only turn back to my books with a fond smile, write as I can, and thank God for the great, great joy it is to be literate and to know the thrill of traveling lands afar through the wilds of an unread book. I feel myself healing. Oh, rest is a beautiful, needful thing.<br />
<br />
It has been a year today since my last release of 2014. A warm happy birthday to my dear first mystery: <i>Anon, Sir, Anon! </i>If any of you feel like burying yourself deep for a cozy, British afternoon, head <a href="http://www.amazon.com/Anon-Sir-Rachel-Heffington/dp/0692301429/ref=sr_1_1?ie=UTF8&qid=1446411712&sr=8-1&keywords=anon+sir+anon">thataway </a>to say hello. Supporting independent authors is a wonderful way to explore deeper waters in the joy of reading.<a href="http://www.amazon.com/Anon-Sir-Rachel-Heffington/dp/0692301429/ref=sr_1_1?ie=UTF8&qid=1446411712&sr=8-1&keywords=anon+sir+anon"> Buy a copy</a> for yourself, for a friend, or to show a lonely little mystery that though the promise of a sister-mystery has been delayed, it has not been forgotten.<br />
<br />
All My Love,<br />
RachelRachel Heffingtonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08383034249438542111noreply@blogger.com4